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THE BURNT MILLION. 









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THE BURNT MILLION. 


A NOVKI,. 


BY 

JAMES PAYN, 

Author of “ One of the Family “ The Luck of the 
Darrellsf “ The Canon's IVardf etc., etc. 


of co^s 
o* C0PYR/GH7 

I UN 16 1890 


NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

150 WORTH ST , COR. MISSION PLACE. 


Copyright, 1889, 

By John W. Loveix. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


CHAPTER I. 

JOSH. 

In the old Court suburb, Kensington, there are still a 
few fine old houses standing back from the road, with 
gardens attached to them of considerable size, and adorned 
with noble trees, especially the cedar. Its “ layers of 
shade/’ though deadly to the turf beneath them, are wel- 
come indeed to the Londoner during the summer heats. 
As he sits on his rocking-chair, shut out from all the din 
and dust of the streets, and with only the muffled roar of 
the great city breaking on his ear like a distant sea — yet 
within reach of all that makes life worth living — he com- 
bines, as few can do, the advantages of town and country ; 
the knowledge that the eye of the capitalist and the 
enterprising builder is on him, and that such pleasures will 
be short-lived, may decrease his enjoyment, but not in all 
cases. 

In that of Mr. Joseph Tremenhere, for example, the 
tenant of Lebanon Lodge, who is thus enjoying a cigar of 
the finest brand and of the size of a sausage, this reflection 
is rather soothing than otherwise. He is a man who is 
not displeased with the notion of a transitory pleasure so 
long as it will last his time. As his lease has still to run 
for twenty years, and he is sixty-five years of age, this he 
thinks may be reckoned upon ; and Mr. Tremenhere’s 
calculations are generally correct. 

He may have made one or two mistakes in life (though 
it would be difficult to convince him of it), but not in 
figures. He may not be good at music and the fine arts 
— though they are both in a sense at his service, in com- 
mon with everything else that money can buy — but at 


4 


THE BURNT MILLION 


“ totting up,” as he playfully terms it, he has no rival. He 
has totted up his own fortune, from the proverbial half- 
crown, with which as a friendless boy he came to London, 
to something like a million of money. It is difficult to 
appreciate the magnitude of this sum, though a master of 
numbers has helped us to do so, by pointing out that the 
bunches of chestnut blossoms on one side of the long drive 
in Bushy Park — which seem to the unscientific eye innu- 
merable — may be considered to “ tot up ” to that amount. 
“ Sell them for a sovereign apiece,” as Josh would say, 
“and there you are.” Mr. Joseph Tremenhere, notwith- 
standing the great respect in which he is held by the world 
at large, is familiarly known by it as “ Josh,” and even 
called so by his more audacious clients to his face, and 
without rebuke. Indeed, supposing their rank is suffi- 
ciently high to justify it, he rather likes it; for it shows 
that he is hand and glove with them. Dukes have taken 
that pudgy hand of his with heartfelt, if transitory, grati- 
tude, for he has dragged their graces out of many a hole. 
Its stumpy but scrupulously clean fingers sparkle with 
costly rings that have been bestowed upon him by noble 
lords in return for the assistance which Jews and lawyers 
have alike denied to them ; they come to him as a last 
resort, and often express a genuine regret that they have 
not earlier applied to such a benefactor of their species ; 
often, we say, but, it must be confessed, not always. 

They are welcomed by him, without exception, with 
courtesy and goodwill ; if they are but frank with him, it 
is ten to one that they v/ill not repent it ; he finds meat on 
their bones, where others have assured them there is no 
meat ; but in cases where there is so very little of it that 
it hardly repays Mr. Joseph Tremenhere for his trouble in 
discovering it, he naturally keeps it for himself. He is 
not going to set noblemen and gentlemen on their legs 
merely to walk away without fee ; and their skeletons 
become his detractors. But who cares for what people 
say who have neither money nor credit? Certainly not 
Mr. Joseph Tremenhere. His own review of his past is as 
favorable as any one could expect — much more so than most 
reviews. Josh’s temper is something angelic ; he has stood 
things which very few people, even philosophers, could 
have borne without indignation ; and his conscience is 
even more under control. Its still small voice was always 


THE BURNT MILLION 


5 


the reverse of importunate, and Josh is growing a little 
deaf. One may almost say that it never troubles him. 
When he looks back upon his life, he is astonished, like 
the great shaker of the pagoda tree, at his own modera- 
tion. He has done pretty well for himself, no doubt, but 
in some cases he might (as he reflects with a sigh) have 
done even better. He thinks over his feats of finance with 
a pardonable pride, for indeed they have been unparalleled. 
He has rushed in where lawyers have feared to tread, and 
snatched from ruin scores of great estates, or at all events 
portions of them. He has stood in the way between them 
and hundreds of grasping greedy creditors, and defied 
them ; whip in hand, he has gone down among the snarl- 
ing crowd, and slashed their faces for them ; nay, he has 
done far more dangerous things — trodden on the very con- 
fines of the criminal law — the crust of the volcano — and 
yet saved both himself and his client. 

His future, so far as he concerns himself with such a 
matter, is assured to him. If he has to live on his principal, 
which would, however, seem to him a very monstrous 
notion, much as the idea of living by theft would seem to 
the intelligent and doubtless honest reader, he could still 
live all the rest of his life in great prosperity, or, as he him- 
self would have expresssed it, “ like a fighting cock.” 

It is indeed the vast amount of money he has made, 
strange as it may seem, which troubles him. 

“ What will become of it when I am gone ? ” is the 
question he is always putting to himself. How to pre- 
serve it to his children ; how to prevent them from doing 
away with it themselves, and especially other people from 
doing away with it for them. He does not want them to 
be coming cap in hand to some other “ Josh,” to entreat 
him to save something of his property out of the fire for 
them. He has a bad opinion of other “ Joshes,” if indeed 
there is one in all Christendom worthy to be called by his 
great name. In Judea there certainly is not. Mr. Joseph 
Tremenhere is a Jew himself (though some people call 
him a Samaritan), but a very “ wet ” Jew ; not at all solici- 
tous about the weightier matters of the law, much less the 
smaller ones, and seldom seen at synagogue. He has 
fought and conquered his brethren of Israel many times, 
and none of them, as well they know, can stand against 
him ; it is something to be the greatest money lender that 


6 


THE BURNT MILLION 


London has ever produced ; but Mr. Joseph Tremenhere 
is far more than that. He is a money-maker. Out of 
estates mortgaged to the hilt, out of fortunes sunk in the 
sand, he has wrung the red gold. 

Just at present, however, he is thinking of none of these 
things, but of his daughter, little Grace, for it is her birth- 
day. She is now coming to him down the lawn, with her 
straw hat in both her hands, the sun shining on her blue-black 
hair, and lighting up every line of her Spanish-looking face 
with beauty. She is slight, and not very tall ; but her 
figure is exquisitely graceful ; she has passed the brook 
of childhood, for she is seventeen, yet still seems to be 
standing on the hither brink of it ; her father calls her “ his 
little fairy,” which requires no great stretch of imagination, 
for she in truth resembles one ; her eyes are so bright, and 
her face so full of glee, that under the dark cedar she 
moves like sunshine. 

“ You naughty, naughty girl ! ” murmurs her proud 
father lovingly ; “ why are you without your hat ? You 
will have a sunstroke.” 

“ But see what I have got in my hat, papa ! ” 

He has been so entranced by his darling’s beauty, that 
he has not looked at her hat, which he now perceives to 
be full of the most lovely flowers, all white ones. 

His face clouds over in a moment ; perhaps the idea 
that such flowers are used at funerals occurs to his mind, 
and connects this fragile little creature — the child of his 
old age — with the grave. 

“ Who has sent you these ? ” he inquires gravely, almost 
sternly. 

“ I don’t know ; they have just come, with nothing but 
this card with them, ‘ To Fairy on her birthday ; ’ is it not 
kind of somebody? ” 

Mr. Joseph Tremenhere takes the card and examines the 
handwriting carefully, and by no means with a pleased 
expression of countenance. 

“ Do you know who it is, papa ? Oh, do tell me, that I 
may thank him when he comes this afternoon.” 

“ How do you know it’s a him ? ” he inquires sharply. 

“ Well, of course, it may be a lady, but we know so few 
ladies ! ” 

This was very true ; the female visitors at Lebanon 
Lodge were not numerous i nor were many of them likely 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


7 


to have sent bridal flowers ( for that was the view of them 
Mr. Tremenhere had taken) to Grace ; they had a whole- 
some fear of her father, and would have been careful not 
to put such things (as matrimony) into his daughter’s 
head. 

“ It must be some gentleman friend of yours, papa,” con- 
tinued the girl ; “ you have so many friends.” 

“ Have I ? ” he said, with a queer smile. 

“ Well, of course ; have I not seen them ? Shall I not 
see them to-day ? men of the highest rank, some of them, 
and all (under petence of saying * Many happy returns ’ 
to poor little me) coming to do you honor.” 

“You think that, do you, little one?” he answered, 
taking her small hand in his, and speaking with gentle 
gravity. 

“ Thtnk it ? I know it. Have you not told me your- 
self how you have helped this, that, and the other in their 
difficulties ? And have I not seen with my own eyes how 
grateful they are to you ? I am no longer a child, papa, 
though I believe you think so, and I know very well that, 
though of course we are very rich ” 

“ What ! you are rich, are you ? ” he interrupted. 

“ Well, of course ; that is, you are, which is the same 
thing. Agnes and Philippa always say we are very rich.” 

“ They do, do they ? ” He smoked at his cigar in rapid 
puffs — a sign, as she well knew, that he was displeased. 

“ Is it wrong, then ? or right for them and wrong forme 
to say so, papa? I am very sorry. They are much older, 
of course ” 

“ Tut, tut ! They are not much wiser, at all events” he 
put in kindly. “ Yes, you are quite right in supposing 
that your position is as good as theirs. Like them, you 
are my daughter, though there the likeness ends. You 
have not offended me at all, little one. It is highly im- 
proper that there should be a ear in your pretty eyes on 
your birthday ; let me kiss it away. You were saying 
that, though we were so rich, something happens or does 
not happen, which was it? ” 

“ But perhaps I ought not to have said anything about 
it, papa ? ” 

“ Yes, you ought ; I like to hear my Fairy talk just as 
she feels, just as she thinks.” 

“ Well, then, I was thinking that other people — Mr, 


8 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


Abraham, for instance, and Mr. Isaacs — who are almost 
as rich as you are, do not have the same friends, neither 
so many nor such great ones as you have. Miss Abraham 
does not know a single lord, she says except one who is 
unhappily obliged to live abroad.” 

“ Very likely,” said Mr. Tremenhere with a smile — this 
time a humorous one. “Well, and we know a dozen or 
so of these noble personages, don’t we, Grace ? And you 
wonder how that comes about ? ” 

“ No, I don’t wonder, papa, because I know” she 
answered gravely. “It is because you have been so gen- 
erous to them, and helped them out of all their troubles. 
How nice it must be to be so good and kind, and also so 
powerful ! It is easy enough to wish to do good. I can 
get that far myself ; but I am not a fairy, though you call 
me so. Now, you are like one of those nice enchanters 
that one reads of in the Eastern tale, who makes it his 
business to undo the work of wicked magicians, and pro- 
tect the weak against the strong.” 

“ I am, am I ? ” Josh had taken his cigar from between 
his lips with one hand, and was covering his mouth with 
the other ; there was something there he did not wish his 
child to see. 

“ Well, of course you are ; everybody knows it. Mr. 
Roscoe said when I was talking to him about you the 
other day, that you are just as kind to animals, since he 
has often seen you help a lame dog over a stile. But, 
now that I have shown you my flowers, I must go and 
dress, dear papa, before the company come ; there is just 
time to give you a kiss before your cigar goes out for 
want of puffing ; ” and she kissed him and tripped away. 

Mr. Tremenhere was very stout ; he was a large man 
from many points of view, and there were no wrinkles in 
his fair fat face, but it had suddenly become very grey and 
worn. On his brow, too, there now sat a heavy frown. His 
little daughter, who was all truth and trust, the only hu- 
man being he knew of whom he could say as much, be- 
lieved him to be a disinterested and kindly man. He knew 
a good deal about getting money under false pretences, 
but this acquisition of tender regard — a young girl’s rever- 
ence — was something new and strange to him. He had 
imagined that, somehow or other, his little Fairy loved him 
for his own sake, though she had understood, however 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


9 


vaguely, what he was. But now it seemed that she had 
been all along in a Fool’s Paradise. How long, he won- 
dered, would she remain in it? It must needs be that, 
sooner or later, she would be undeceived ; but woe to him 
that should wake her from her innocent dreams ! Roscoe, 
of all the men in the world, had contrived to amuse him- 
self with her simplicity, had he ? Roscoe, his right-hand 
man, who knew more of his secrets than anybody, and 
could tell more things of him. If he had dared to pre- 
sume upon that fact But here Mr. Joseph Tremen- 

here’s indignation became too much for him, and he 
rapped out an oath that would be quite unintelligible 
to the gentle reader. What it meant was, that if the 
circumstance in question did happen, Mr. Edward Roscoe 
should learn to his cost, and with a vengeance, the 
difference between master and man. 


CHAPTER II. 

LORD CHERIBERT. 

An hour later, the grounds of Lebanon Lodge were filling 
with gay company. Ladies, mostly matrons, of dark 
complexion and ample proportions, perhaps a trifle over- 
dressed. Daughters of Judah, who, if they made no 
“tinkling with theirfeet,” exhibited elsewhere aconsiderable 
amount of personal jewellery. Young ones also, though 
much fewer, were to be seen about the garden fountain and 
its fishpond — full of swimming bullion — like so many 
Rebekahs at the well, waiting, in most cases in vain, for 
their Isaacs. For of Isaacs, unless old ones, there were 
very few. The males of the company, who far out- 
numbered the ladies, were professing Christians, and in 
most cases had no other profession. Aristocrats of noble 
race, but who had somewhat slipped out of their order. 
The Marquis of Baccarat, who was hardly seen at any 
social gathering, save those rare ones at Lebanon Lodge ; 
Lord Petronel, Lord Shotover, Lord Cambalio, all three 
of whom would have recently appeared in a court much 
less highly thought of than that of St. James’ but for the 
kind interest which Mr. Tremenhere had taken in their 


lO 


THE BURNT MILLION 


affairs. General St. Gatien, once, but not very recently,, of 
the Guards. The band of his old regiment, playing on the 
lawn, was by no means incited to strike up “ See the 
Conquering Hero comes,’ ’ on recognizing him ; he was 
associated in their minds with a piece of music of quite 
another kind — a march. Sir Tattenham Corner, and many 
other celebrities of the turf and of the Band of Green 
Cloth. Some of these eminent guests — for they had all 
achieved distinction for themselves, and, if not exactly 
public benefactors, had like ill winds blown some people 
good, and laid the social journalists in particular under 
especial obligations — were still young in years ; but their 
appearance had lost some of the freshness of youth. They 
had the delicate and ascetic air of young monks of the 
cloister, or of too diligent students, though it had not been 
produced by the same means ; they too, indeed, had 
burned the midnight oil, but not “with blinded eyesight 
poring over miserable books;” they had given their 
attention only to the books they had made themselves, 
which, though not published at their own expense, had 
cost them dearly. Their heavy eyes were sunk in their 
wan cheeks, and had semicircles of black under them 
which were not, however, to judge by the looks that were 
cast at them by the other sex, altogether unattractive. 
They were undoubtedly distinguished-looking young 
fellows ; but to persons who were acquainted with what is 
confidently believed by some people to be “life,” they 
suggested the deleterious habit of taking green cura^oa 
and pickled walnuts for their breakfasts. There was, how- 
ever, one marked exception to them in the person of 
Viscount Cheribert. This nobleman was but just of age, 
and looked much younger (his father, Lord Morelia, was 
not only alive, but had barely reached middle life, which, 
to a young man who lives on post obits, is a very serious 
and expensive matter) ; there was no more hair on his 
fresh young face than on that of an Eton boy in the Lower 
School; his complexion was brilliant, but far from hectic 
■ — it was perfectly healthy. If teeth are injured by smoking, 
it must be — to judge by those of Lord Cheribert — because 
a little smoking, like learning, is a dangerous thing; a 
cigar was never out of his mouth — it was whispered that 
he even smoked in bed — and yet his teeth were pearls. 
His figure, though slight, was perfect ; he was an adept in 


THE BVrMT MTLlTOH. 


ii 


all manly games and exercises, but had devoted himself 
(and many a paternal acre) to piquet. He was an admir- 
able player, but, as is generally the case with games, he 
had met with men who played better; it was said that 
before he was nineteen he had lost eleven thousand pounds 
at it — without counting what the cards cost, which was a 
pretty penny — at a single sitting, One can’t help admiring 
a young fellow who can point to such an item — though 
unfortunately a deficit — in his accounts as that. Josh had 
a genuine regard for him, independent of the gigantic 
losses which in his eyes surrounded this juvenile spend- 
thrift with an auriferous halo. The great money-spinner 
had a tenderness for the great money-spender ; the 
Napoleon of Finance a sort of pity for this gay young 
Blucher, who, though always defeated, never seemed to 
know that he had been beaten. More than once Josh had 
faced his father for him — and Lord Morelia was not a 
pleasant man to face under such circumstances — and 
pleaded, though not of course on sentimental grounds, for 
his prodigal son. 

Youth and good looks, especially when accompanied by 
good manners, weigh with every one who is not absolutely 
destitute of tenderness, which was by no means the case, 
as we know, with Mr. Joseph Tremenhere ; the interests, 
moreover, of the two men were (or seemed to be) identical ; 
but what, perhaps, attached Josh to the young fellow more 
than all was that he perceived in him, notwithstanding his 
mad ways, a genuine stanchness ; that though his money 
and he were so easily parted, Lord Cheribert was not a 
fool. Josh thought it just within the range of possibility 
— though no one else thought it — that the young man 
might one day become a decent member of society. Re- 
spectability was in his blood. It was true he was going to 
the devil (Josh’s devil — Poverty) faster than any young 
fellow of his means had ever ridden; but there was a 
chance, just a chance, that he might suddenly pull up ; and 
if he did pull up, it was Josh’s opinion that it would be for 
good and all. He might even become another Lord 
Morelia. To the outside world this forecast would have 
seemed rank folly ; but Joseph Tremenhere, though utterly 
ignorant of book-learning, had studied the pages of human 
life to some purpose. “ In every spendthrift,” he was wont 
to say (though only to himself), “ there lives a miser.” If 


12 


THE BURNT MILLION 


for one single instant Lord Cheribert could be brought to 
see his position (as every one else saw it) — the gulf of ruin 
on which he stood, and, above all, himself the laughing- 
stock of every knave who had helped to bring him there — 
Josh believed he might be saved ; and if saved (of this 
Josh felt sure), every farthing which remained out of the 
wreck of his fortunes would be saved with him. Whatever 
was left to him he would stick to like a limpet to his rock ; 
and whatever might accrue to him from thenceforth would 
be as safe as though it were in his (Mr. Tremenhere’s) own 
strong box. 

Each guest, as he arrived, came up to his host under the 
cedar tree, and said a word or two. “ His little Fairy ” 
stood by his side, and sometimes he introduced them to 
her, and sometimes he did not. He was not the sort of 
person to whom any man (who knew him) was likely to 
say, “You have omitted to introduce me to your 
daughter, Mr. Tremenhere.” It was quite possible that 
he might presently have told him, and with much plainness 
of speech, why he had omitted that act of politeness. 

To some he held out a couple of fingers — difficult, but by 
none found impossible — to hook ; to others three, to others 
four. When Lord Cheribert came up smiling — some called 
him “ Lucifer, son of the morning,” in allusion to his 
naughty ways and the freshness of his appearance — the 
host offered his whole hand. 

“ How are you. Josh ? ” was the familiar salutation upon 
the young man’s lips ; but at the sight of Gracie it became 
“ How are you, Tremenhere ? ” — an alteration which other 
sprigs of nobility had not thought it worth their while to 
make. 

“ As well as an old man has any right to be, my lord,” 
he said ; and then with a wave of his hand, “ My daughter, 
Grace.” 

“This is a very auspicious occasion, I understand,” 
said the young fellow ; “ I wish you many happy returns 
of the day, Miss Tremenhere.” 

His tone was so natural and buoyant that it almost 
seemed as thought a child was speaking to a child. 

“ Cheribert has the best manners and the worst morals 
of any man of his age in Christendom,” General St. Gatien 
was wont to say, in strange forgetfulness, as regards one 
part of the verdict at least, of his own far-off youth. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


*3 

Grace was put at her ease at once, and thanked him 
prettily. 

“What. a day for a birthday you have got 1 ” he went 
on ; “ but then, I feel sure you deserve it. Now my last 
birthday was all wind and rain ; you recollect my coming 
of age, Tremenhere, for you were so good as to dine with 
me on that occasion.’’ 

“ I remember it was a very wet evening,” said Josh with 
humorous gravity. 

Lord Cheribert laughed as lightly as the fountain 
played. “ What a charming scene this is ! There are 
very few gardens like this in London, where the band does 
not seem too big for it. You like the country better than 
the town, of course, Miss Tremenhere ? ” 

“ Indeed I do.” 

“ I wish I were your age,” murmured his lordship with 
a genuine sigh. He was only five years older than the 
young lady but, on the other hand, he had spent, or at all 
events he owed it, 100,000/. in the interval. 

“ Oh, but papa likes it better too,” said Grace gravely, 
“ if one could get him to own it.” 

“ Really? Are you so purely pastoral, Tremenhere ? ” 

u I like my own place in Cumberland, and the fishing,” 
said the money-lender stiffly. He did not like to be 
chaffed about his pursuits just now, even ever so little, 
though, as a general rule, he welcomed chaff : he made 
grain out of it. 

“And whereabouts is your Cumberland home, Miss 
Tremenhere ? ” 

“Well, it is rather difficult to describe, for it is quite up 
among the mountains, and away from everywhere, on 
Halswater.” 

“ I suppose your father wishes to keep it a dead secret,” 
said Lord Cheribert, laughing, “ as the way over the fells 
to Muncaster Castle used to be kept. He has never 
asked me , at all events, to come and see him there.” 

“ I am afraid life at Halswater Hall would not be much 
in your line, my lord,” said the money-lender with a gather- 
ing frown. 

“ Don’t be hard on me before Miss Grace,” said Lord Che- 
ribert gently. “ Why need you tell her that I have no taste 
for the picturesque, no love for the beauties of nature, ho 
time now for wholesome pleasure such as fishing ” 


14 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


“ Oh, but I am sure papa didn’t mean that,” interposed 
Grace quickly ; she felt really sorry for this innocent and 
bright young fellow, who imagined himself the subject of 
such severe reproof ; “ I am sure you could not help liking 
Hals water.” 

“ Still your father doesn’t ask me there,” observed his 
lordship with humorous persistence. “ My dear Tre- 
menhere, I dote on fishing.” 

“ I was not aware of it, my lord, though I see you are 
fishing now,” was the host’s grim reply ; “ but it’s too 
bright a day for catching anything, even an invitation. 
Grace, dear, Agnes is calling you.” 

“So I am not to be asked, Josh, to this country house 
of yours ? ” said Lord Cheribert. His tone had no longer 
its pretence of pleading ; he had exchanged it for a good- 
natured familiarity, in which there lurked, nevertheless, a 
certain seriousness. 

“ No, my lord, you must not come to Halswater.” 

“ Indeed ! The lake is not private property, I conclude,” 
returned the young man with a slight flush ; “ the river, I 
suppose, is open to anglers ? ” 

“ You have asked me a question, and you have had my 
answer, Lord Cheribert,” was the cold reply. 

“Perhaps you will kindly furnish me with a map of 
England, Mr. Tremenhere, with the places marked in red 
ink which I am not to visit? ” 

“ It is not at all impossible that at no distant date you will 
find the whole island marked out in that way for you, my 
lord,” was the quiet rejoinder, “and by less friendly hands 
than mine.” 

The young man lifted his hat — not only in sign of 
departure ; it was a trick he had on the rare occasions 
when the sense of his true position came over him, the 
instinct to remove a weight from his brow — and turned 
away without a word. 

“ Agnes, come here ! ” continued the money-lender. 

His eldest daughter, who was still talking with Grace, at 
once left her to obey his summons. She was a tall, fair 
woman of thirty years of age, but looked older ; her fea- 
tures were good, and even classical, but her lips were thin 
and straight ; her hair resembled hay, and there was not a 
luxuriant crop of it ; her eyes were a cold blue, usually 
lustreless ; her eyebrows so faint that through them could 


THE BURNT MILLION 


X S 


be discerned the “ thin red line” by which the historian 
on - a well-known occasion described the British infantry. 

“ What is it, papa ? ” 

“ Keep by your sister’s side this afternoon, Agnes j I 
don’t wish strangers to talk with her.” 

“ You mean by Grace’s side, I suppose ? ” 

“ Well, I suppose so,” he answered with curt contempt. 

I should think Philippa was old enough to take care of 
herself.” 

It was not a pretty speech, for there was only one year 
between his eldest and his second daughter ; but it was 
not Mr. Tremenhere’s habit to make pretty speeches, 
except to his little Fairy. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE MEMORANDUM. 

Among the many things that puzzled people who had the 
privilege of knowing the Tremenhere family — and some 
people who hadn’t, for Josh and his affairs were much 
talked about — was why the two marriageable Miss Tre- 
menheres did not take advantage of their position. Miss 
Agnes has been introduced to the reader, and if her 
personal attractions were not great, that, of course, was 
but of little consequence in such a matter. It is only a 
few men in these days who marry for a pretty face, and 
their intelligence is not thought very highly of. 

Her sister Philippa had narrowly missed being pretty. 
She was not so tall as Agnes, and, indeed, rather dumpy 
as to figure ; but her bones were better covered. I am 
speaking of her as she was spoken of among themselves — 
by her father’s male acquaintance, who were much more 
free of speech in discussing the family than when speaking 
of ladies of their own class. Her black eyes were “ beady,” 
and had not much expression. She was almost good- 
looking enough, they said, ‘‘for a cigar shop.” Of this 
last matter they were doubtless good judges, but they 
were not students of character, and there were points in 
that of Miss Philippa which had escaped all but one of 
them. To say that three gentlemen out of four, who 


i6 


THE BURNT MILLION, 


enjoyed — or at all events possessed — Mr. Tremenhere's 
acquaintance, would have “jumped” at the idea of marry- 
ing either of his daughters would be to give a very feeble 
(as well as vulgar) expression to their sentiments ; but 
they knew that the grapes hung too high for them. More- 
over, Josh stood in the way of these objects of their 
ambition like a chevaux de / rise . It is comparatively 
easy to run, off with an heiress ; even if she is a ward of 
Chancery, you at least get the interest of her money — 
when you come out of prison ; but it was well understood 
that whoever married one of Josh’s daughters without his 
permission might just as. well have married for love. This 
was hard upon the young ladies, but, unlike most of their 
sex, they could afford to wait. Their attractions were not 
dependent upon mere youth and beauty, but on solid 
worth. At fifty, as everybody knew, they might pick and 
choose for themselves — so soon as Josh’s will was proved 
— as though they were fifteen. In the meantime, however, 
they remained single. Every one has their pet antipathy, 
and Mr. Joseph Tremenhere concentrated his scorn and 
hate upon the Fortune-Hunter. He loved his Fairy with 
a paternal passion of which few believed him capable, but 
he loved his money more, and no one had any doubt of 
that fact. There was no necessity for him to shut up his 
stately Agnes, or his dark-eyed Philippa, in any castle of 
steel guarded by dragons ; for his iron will — and the 
thought of his Will — encompassed them and kept them 
safe. Neither they nor their would-be suitors were under 
any mistake about the matter. That observation of Mr. 
Tremenhere’s about Philippa being old enough to take 
care of herself was merely a stroke of humor. He meant 
rather that she was wise enough to take care of herself, 
which his little Fairy might possibly not be. The love he 
had lavished on her might so far mislead her as to imagine 
that whatever she did would be forgiven her — even a mar- 
riage with a landless lord — a catastrophe indeed to be 
guarded against. On the other hand Josh knew that his 
will would be a law to Grace in quite another sense than it 
was to her sisters ; moreover she was still so childlike 
that the thought of “ such things ” had not as yet so much 
as entered her mind ; only it was well to be on the safe; 
side from the first. 

< Notwithstanding that the position of affairs as regarded 


THE BURNT MILLION 


* 1 


the two elder Miss Tremenheres was so well understood, 
there were plenty of butterflies to hover about them — or 
rather of bees, not so much in search of immediate honey 
as of the garnered store that would some day accrue to 
them ; but there was nothing of seriousness in their atten- 
tions. The only person who addressed them with any 
approach to familiarity was Mr. Edward Roscoe, whose 
intimate business relations with their father gave him that 
enviable privilege. When Agnes had been removed from 
Grace’s side, this gentleman hajd taken her place — not 
demonstratively, but in a quiet, natural manner — as her 
body-guard. He seemed to know by intuition what would 
be his patron’s wishes. His appearance was rather 
remarkable. He was of moderate height, but so very 
upright that one would have taken him for a tall man. He 
had a clean-shaven face, except for two magnificent 
whiskers, which were, nevertheless, kept within due 
limits ; it was a handsome face, and when he smiled an 
attractive one, but its ordinary expression was grave and 
even saturnine. His complexion was swarthy, though not 
disagreeably so. His voice, especially when addressing a 
woman, was very sweet and low ; but on occasion — and 
the occasions were frequent — it would be firm and resolute. 
He had an air of independence that was almost obtrusive — 
not at all like that of an underling, yet he was well known 
to be Mr. Tremenhere’s jackal. It was whispered that, 
notwithstanding the clean and womanlike way in which 
the lion disposed of his bones, Mr. Roscoe was wont to 
find something on them for himself. His chief power lay, 
however, in the fact, with which everyone was acquainted, 
that he was a friend of the family. 

“ Permit me, Miss Grace, to wish you many happy 
returns of the day, which I have not yet done by word of 
mouth j ” and he looked significantly at the beautiful 
flowers which the girl now held in her hand. 

“ Then it was you who sent me these ? ” she said with a 
grateful blush. “ It was very kind of you, Mr. Roscoe.” 

“It was a great pleasure tome, but not worth speaking 
about, and you will oblige me by not doing so. Some persons 
might think it an impertinence in one in my position.” 

%4‘ An impertinence ? ” 

“ Well, I know you would not think so ; but it is not every 
one who estimates people for themselves. I should not, 

2 


i8 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


for example, venture to give your sisters birthday presents, 
however humble ones.” 

“ How strange ! I am sure they have both a great regard 
for you, Air. Roscoe,” she answered simply. 

He smiled, with the least touch of bitterness. “ When 
you grow older, Miss Grace, you will know the world 
better, and then I shall keep my distance. At present, 
you see, I take advantage of your simplicity.” 

To judge by his sarcastic look as the girl cast down her 
eyes, one would almost have said he was really doing it. 
It changed, as her sister came up, to a smile of welcome. 

“ Well, Miss Agnes, you are to be on duty, I suppose ? 
My post is relieved.” 

“ I had no orders for your dismissal, Mr. Roscoe,” she 
answered, gently. 

“ Then let us keep guard together by all means.” 

It was not a superfluous precaution. The Marquis of 
Baccarat was at that moment lounging up to them with his 
cigar. Lebanon Lodge was Holiday Hall as regarded 
smoking. He was slight and of small stature, to which 
he added an inch by high-heeled boots. He had a little 
strut in his walk, which gave him a resemblance to a 
pigeon — and indeed a pigeon he was, though almost 
plucked. To save him the trouble of keeping his glass on 
his eye, it was screwed into his hat — a device not so in- 
convenient as it appeared, since he really could see equally 
well whether his hat was on or off*. 

“ How are you, Miss Tremenhere ? ” he lisped. “ Let 
me congratulate you upon the great success of your garden- 
party. Everybody is raving about it.” 

Though he addressed himself to Agnes, his impudent 
eyes were fixed upon her younger sister, who, however, took 
no notice of him. She was still rapt, or seemed to be so, 
in admiration of her flowers, and talked in an undertone 
with their donor. 

“ It is not my garden-party, my lord,” said Agnes. She 
had meant to add, “ it is my sister’s,” but a glance from 
Mr. Roscoe made her parse. 

“Well, I suppose not, in one sense,” squeaked the 
marquis ; his voice, when irritated, was like that of a suck- 
ing-pig. “ But as to the founder of the feast, your father, 
so humble an individual as myself cannot get at him even to 
say a word of congratulation. His cedar tree y#nder is 
quite a hall of audience.” 


THE BURNT MILLION 


*9 

“ Sir Tattenham has left Mr. Tremenhere now, my lord,” 
observed Mr. Roscoe drily, “ if you have anything to say 
to him ; ” and as he spoke he interposed himself by a 
natural movement between Grace and the new-comer. 
The little lord sheered off, hurling a broadside of invective 
— so far as looks could do it — upon this faithful sentinel, 
who remained utterly unmoved. 

“A worthless creature, but not dangerous,” he mur- 
mured in the elder sister’s ear. Agnes nodded adhesion ; 
his lordship’s indifference to her charms had been marked 
enough to arouse any woman’s indignation. 

“ Why does papa invite such people ? ” she returned in 
the same low tones. 

“ My dear Miss Agnes, he is a marquis ! ” said Mr. 
Roscoe. His most winning smile sat on the speaker’s lips 
as he uttered these words of pretended reproof, and her 
face reflected the smile. To a keen observer it would have 
almost seemed to say, “ Your views are mine ; for my part, 
as you should know, I prefer a man to a marquis.” 

Mr. Roscoe’s tone to Grace had been more tender, but 
less confidential than his manner to her sister ; they seemed 
to have a mutual understanding. 

* “ Philippa, on the other hand, loves a lord,” said Agnes, 
more in pursuance of her own train of reflection than 
suggested by the fact that her sister was approaching them 
in company with Lord Cheribert. 

“ I am afraid so,” laughed Mr. Roscoe. 

“ E’en Irish Peers, could she but tag ’em, 

With Lord and Duke ’twere sweet to call ; 

And, at a pinch, Lord Bally-raggem 
Was better than no Lord at all.” 

Lord Morelia was in the Irish Peerage. 

Lord Cheribert, with his bright fresh smile, shook hands 
with Agnes, and also with Mr. Roscoe. The latter gentle- 
man, unsoftened by that affability, obstructed, as before, 
the young man’s view of the more attractive object in the 
background ; he did not understand that he was “ on the 
free list,” and had already been introduced to Grace by 
Mr. Tremenhere. 

“ Papa has been telling Grace, Lord Cheribert informs 
me,” said Philippa, “ that we are going to Halswater early 
in the autumn,” 


20 


THE BURNT MILLION 


Mr. Roscoe withdrew from his obnoxious position with 
the swiftness of a magic-lantern slide, and Agnes clapped 
her hands ; “ I am so glad ! ” she cried. 

“ So you too, like Miss Grace, are a lover of the country, 
are you?” said his lordship, so precipitately that it cut off 
the expression of astonishment that had risen to Grace’s 
lips. She had no recollection of her father having made 
any such statement, but it did not now seem worth while 
to dispute it. Agnes was already eloquent upon the plea- 
sures of life at the Lakes. Lord Cheribert listened to her 
with apparent interest. 

“ You are as Arcadian as Miss Philippa, it seems,” he 
said. “ I am, alas ! only a Burlington Arcadian, but I 
hope some day to mend my ways. Why does Mr. Roscoe 
smile like that, I wonder? ” His tone was good-humored, 
but, to the ear which it addressed, had a certain severity. 
There were more reckless men than Lord Cheribert in the 
“gilded pale” of Lebanon Lodge that afternoon, but no 
one with whom it was more imprudent to take a liberty. 

“ I was not aware that I was smiling, my lord,” said 
Mr. Roscoe ; and he spoke the truth. 

“That is the worst of having too sweet a disposition,” 
returned his lordship drily. “ So both you young ladies 
fish, do you ? Does Miss Grace also fish ? ” And he 
turned his pleasant face to her for the first time. 

“No, Lord Cheribert, I do not fish. I think it’s cruel.” 

“ Really ! I thought they had a cartilage, a something 
expressly given them, so that the hook should not hurt 
them.” 

“ But there is the live bait.” 

“To be sure, I had forgotten that; they' don’t sell it in 
the Arcade, you see.” 

“ I don’t think you are quite so ignorant as you pretend 
to be,” laughed Grace. 

“ Well, that’s kinder than Miss Philippa, at all events, 
who made the same remark just now about my innocence. 
But I am really like a child in this matter — and a good 
child too, for I know nothing of the rod. I was in hopes 
that some of you young ladies would teach me how to catch 
trout. I only know one way — when the stream is very dry, 
to cut what water there is off and leave them stranded.” 

“Not a very sportmanlike proceeding, I must say,” 
observed Agnes, smiling. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


21 


“ Never laugh at the ignorant or the poor, and I’m both,” 
said Lord Cheribert reprovingly. “ What I want is teach' 
ing.” 

“ Well, if you come to Halswater,” said Agnes, “ Philippa 
and I will teach you to throw a fly.” 

“ Thanks ; that’s a bargain. And what will you teach 
me, Miss Grace ? ” 

“I? Nothing; I have everything — so everybody tells 
me — to learn.” 

“ Then everybody doesn’t tell the truth. Come, you 
must do something when you are in the country, or else, 
like me, you would feel tempted there to commit felo-de-se.” 

“ No, I do nothing ; I only wander over the hills and far 
away.” 

“Then you must know your way about.” 

u Not a dalesman of the dales, not a cragsman of the 
fells, I flatter myself, knows it better,” said Grace, with 
conscious pride. 

“ Thanks ; that’s another bargain. I’ll put it down in 
my little book at once.” And here he produced his bet- 
ting-book — a duodecimo volume he had bought for little, 
but which had cost him much. 

“ Mem. : September, to learn how to fish from Miss 
Agnes and Miss Philippa Tremenhere ; to learn my way 
about’ from Miss Grace.” 

“ But I never promised to teach you,” she remonstrated. 

“But you did not say you wouldn't, and you looked as 
if you would,” he replied gaily. “ Your excellent father 
is coming this way, doubtless to ask me to Halswater; 
but his invitation is now superfluous. I shall be there.” 
He smiled, nodded instead of taking his hat off, but very 
pleasantly, and was gone. It was very cool of him, of 
course, but his manner robbed his nods of any impertinence. 
It was said of Lord Cheribert by his detractors, who after 
all were few, that he owed much of his personal popularity 
to the exercise of a certain “ agreeable insolence ; ” it was 
not, however, really insolence, but only the perfectly 
natural manner of a very kindly young fellow who was 
always accustomed to have his own way. 


22 


THE BURNT MILLION \ 


CHAPTER IV. 

A SUSPICION. 

Lord Cheribert was in error in supposing, or at least 
asserting, that Mr. Tremenhere had come up to the little 
party, like a dove with the olive branch, with an invitation 
for him to Halswater in his mouth. If that gentleman 
looked like a dove at all it was one whose feathers have 
been very much ruffled ; his- appearance was more like that 
of an angry hen, who sees her pet chicken endangered by 
the attentions of a hawk in chick’s feathers. Of the hawk 
proper, with beak and claw highly developed, it was 
evident he stood in no fear, or he would not have brought 
General St. Gatien with him, unless, indeed, his haste was 
such that it did not admit of his getting rid of that gallant 
officer, with whom he had been conversing under the cedar 
tree. The general was a tall hairy man, with a sinister 
expression, and, but for his great height, which seemed to 
unfit him for naval evolutions, less resembled a soldier 
than a buccaneer. As he took off his hat with a sweep to 
the ladies, he looked as if he would have liked to buy all 
three of them — the youngest for choice — and had forgotten 
for the moment that he had not the money. 

“ The three Graces,” he said, “ upon my life, in the 
Garden of Eden.” 

The mythology, perhaps, was a little mixed, but that the 
general thought he had paid a pretty and acceptable com- 
pliment was certain, by the way in which he smiled and 
drew out his waxed moustachios — a sure sign of self-satis- 
faction with him. 

“ Our Eden is not without a serpent, however,” replied 
Miss Philippa, who had a ready tongue, and was not the 
least afraid of this warrior, “ for I have seen him.” 

“ Indeed ! ” he said, with a flush upon his swarthy 
face. 

“ Don’t be afraid, general,” she added, with a light laugh, 
“ I meant nothing personal. It was only a musical instru- 
ment; they have a serpent in your band,” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


2 3 


“You’re too clever for me, Miss Philippa,” he answered, 
frowning ; there were reasons, though she did not know 
them, why allusions to his old regiment were displeasing to 
him. 

“ What was Cheribert so eloquent to you about just 
now? You didn’t make fun of him, I'll warrant.” 

Philippa was about to make some jesting reply, when she 
noticed that her father, who was speaking to Mr. Roscoe, 
had suddenly paused as if to listen to her. 

“ He was enlightening us upon sporting matters.” 

“No doubt he fancies himself immensely in his own 
colors, but, mark my words, he’ll break his neck some 
day.” 

Grace looked up quickly, with an ejaculation of dis- 
may. 

“ Yes,” pursued the general ruthlessly, “ I would recom- 
mend no young lady to set her affections upon Cheribert 
till he has learnt to ride or given up steeplechasing.” 

“ He has given it up,” observed Mr. Tremenhere. 

“ Not a bit of it, my good fellow ; he only said he was 
thinking of giving it up. You’re a better judge of what his 
thoughts are worth than I am, and doubtless have persua- 
ders for him as sharp as his spurs ; but I’ll back his obsti- 
nacy, though I wouldn’t back his horse. He’s booked for 
the Everdale, at all events, and it’s a stiffish course.” 

“ Indeed,” replied Mr. Tremenhere indifferently. But 
the news was in reality displeasing to him. There were 
certain arrangements of great importance to him, which, 
“ if anything should happen ” to Lord Cheribert would turn 
out very disastrously ; and though his business operations 
were often of a most speculative kind, he resented their 
being made unnecessarily so. He had two mottoes : one 
was “ Push ” (which he pronounced like “ rush ”), and the 
other, “ No Risks, as the goose said when she stooped 
under the barn door.” It might be said of him that he 
was much less like a goose than a fox, but he was quite as 
anxious as that prudent bird not to knock his head, and 
also that other people in whom he had a pecuniary interest 
should not knock their heads — against a stone wall in a 
steeplechase, for example. He even mechanically cast an 
uneasy glance at Mr. Roscoe, as though he would say, 
“Do you hear that ? ” to which, however, that gentleman, 
who was in earnest conversation with “ his little Fairy,” 
gave no response. 


24 


THE BURNT MILLION 


They were bending over those white flowers together, the 
arrival of which had already given Mr. Tremenhere some 
discomfiture. 

“ General, an idea has just struck me,” he exclaimed 
suddenly ; “ I think I see my way out of that business 
about which we were talking together just now.” 

“ And do you see my way ? ” returned the general per- 
tinently. 

“ I think so,” and he thrust his stout arm through that 
of his astonished guest and led him away. 

The two elder sisters looked at one another signifi- 
cantly. 

“Papa is very angry,” said Philippa in a low tone. 

“ There is no need to tell me that, since I know papa as 
well as you do,” was the dry reply. 

“ I suppose it’s about Lord Cheribert ; \ could not help 
bringing him with me ; he asked me to bring him ; it is so 
difficult somehow to refuse him anything.” 

Agnes did not answer ; her attention seemed to be dis- 
tracted by what was going on between Mr. Roscoe and 
Grace. Philippa observed this, and a strange expression 
flitted across her face ; it had displeasure in it, and also a 
certain cruelty. 

“ After all,” she said, “ it is not surprising that Grace 
should have taken his fancy.” 

“ Whose fancy ? ” inquired Agnes sharply, the little color 
she possessed suddenly deserting her cheeks. 

“ Well, of course, Lord Cheribert’s ; you did not sup- 
pose I meant General St. Gatien’s surely? ” There was a 
touch of mockery in her tone which did not escape the 
other’s ear. 

“ Instead of chattering here with me, Philippa,” she said 
severely, “ it seems to me you ought to be attending to our 
guests.” 

“ Why don’t you do the honors to them yourself, my 
dear? ” returned the other ; “you are the eldest.” 

Agnes’ brow grew very black, and a gleam of anger 
flashed from her eyes ; the tone was quiet enough, however, 
in which she replied, “ Papa has placed me here to take 
charge of Grace.” 

Philippa laughed softly, but not sweetly, and cast a half 
glance at the couple behind them. What her laugh seemed 
to say was, “ I cannot congratulate you upon the way in 


THE BURNT MILLION 


25 


which you are performing your duties.” “ Mr. Roscoe,” 
she said, “ I have been moved on by the police. Will 
you give me your escort to the refreshment tent? ” 

The gentleman appealed to looked up with a quick start, 
and glanced at Agnes. “I am unable to oblige you, 
Miss Philippa,” he answered coldly ; “ I am under orders 
to remain on guard here with your sister.’' 

It was Philippa’s turn to look black now : the blood 
rushed to her face, she pressed her lips closely together as 
if to restrain herself from speaking, and moved slowly 
away. 

“ Why did she want you to go with her?” inquired 
Agnes under her breath. 

“ A little shy, I suppose ; there are so many people 
about.” 

“Shy? You should rather say sly,” said Agnes con- 
temptuously. 

“ If so,” replied Mr. Roscoe gravely, “ there is only the 
more reason for that caution, the necessity of which I 
have so often ventured to impress upon you. — Your father 
is coming back to us, Miss Grace ; you have an attraction 
for him to-day, it seems, even greater than usual.” 

Mr. Tremenhere had now a lady on his arm; she was 
dark and plump, had hardly reached middle age, and, but for 
a certain coarseness of feature, would have been decidedly 
good-looking. Her name was Linden, and she was a widow. 
Her dress was magnificent — indeed, a great deal too much 
so for a garden-party — and sparkled with jewels ; but the 
good nature in her eyes outshone them. Mr. Tremenhere 
had not many favorites among the female sex, but Mrs. 
Linden was one of them. It was whispered that she 
entertained the ambition of becoming something nearer to 
him than his confidential friend and domestic adviser — a 
circumstance that 'prevented her from gaining the good 
graces of either Agnes or Philippa. 

“ They are so devoted to their father,” the widow used 
to say to her intimates with a strange mixture of frank- 
ness and sarcasm, “ that it makes them jealous of me.” 
What she said to herself was, “ They think I want his 
money — or what they consider their money — as if I had 
not more than I know what to do with already ! ” And 
doubtless, though they objected to her influence with their 
father, their opposition would have been far less keen, 


2 6 


THE BURNT MILLION, 


could she have placed their minds at ease on this point. 
Young people can never understand why old people should 
want to marry, and are always quick to impute bad motives 
for it; but the true reason for Mrs. Linden’s admiration 
for Mr. Tremenhere was never even guessed at by his 
daughters. Money, as they suspected, was at the bottom of 
it, but not greed. The late Mr. Linden had distinguished 
himself in the same profession ; had been, as it were, the 
attorney-general among money-lenders, but Mr. Tremen- 
here was the Lord Chief Justice ; she bowed down less to 
the golden calf, than to the intelligence of the man who 
had built it up, though she perceived no folly in his 
worshipping it. The hunger for gold is at least as strong 
with some people as that for land, of which we have lately 
heard so much ; and the pleasure of satisfying it, even 
to those who have heaps of it, is fully equal to that of 
earth-eating. The atmosphere Mrs. Linden had always 
breathed was aureate ; the ground she had trodden upon 
was auriferous ; her very dreams had been golden. She 
had been brought up all her life, as indeed had been Mr. 
Tremenhere, in the worship of wealth, which has a cult, 
just as rank and position have ; only, instead of the 
“ Peerage” and “County Families,” “plums” and 
“ warmth ” are the objects of adoration. This respectable 
sect place the possessors of a hundred thousand pounds, 
of five hundred thousand, and so on, where lords and 
dukes are put in the other scale. In Mrs. Linden’s eyes 
Mr. Joseph Tremenhere was a prince of the blood, because 
he was said to have a million of money ; if he had died 
worth all that, he would have seemed to her to enter into 
a sort of Walhalla, and she would have spoken of him 
ever after with hushed reverence. But she hoped he 
would not die, but live to make her Mrs. Tremenhere, that 
she might shine by his reflected splendor. Except for that, 
her regard for him was as unselfish as that of any village 
maiden for her swain ; she would not have asked for a 
pennyworth of settlement ; and underneath all that yellow 
mud she had a tender heart. 

“ How beautiful your little Fairy is looking, dear Mr. 
Tremenhere ! ” she had been saying with genuine admira- 
tion, as, emerging with him from the refreshment tent, her 
eyes fell on the girl and her body-guard. “ If I were you 
I should feel quite nervous at having so bright a jewel in 
charge,” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


27 


“ Grace is as good as she is pretty,” said the money- 
lender in a tone that was not only confident but had 
something of reproof in it. 

“ No doubt, as good as gold. But her very simplicity 
and ignorance of her own attractions have danger in 
them.” 

“ That is true,” said Mr. Tremenhere. It was even truer 
t\an she thought ; he felt that it was his duty — some day 
— to point out to his little Fairy, that, kind and tender as 
he seemed to her, he could — and would — be inflexible as 
iron in certain circumstances ; on an occasion too, per- 
haps, when she might have expected him to be soft as wax ; 
but he shrank from showing her a side of his character 
which, though so often turned to others, she had never 
beheld. 

“ You are a woman and have keen eyes,” he continued 
gravely ; “ do you suspect danger — I mean from any par- 
ticular quarter ? ” 

“ I would rather not answer that question, Mr. 
Tremenhere.” 

“ But I insist upon it, Mrs. Linden ; my child has no 
mother.” 

“That is an appeal I cannot resist,” she interrupted 
hastily; “but I am no meddler, and hate to make mis- 
chief, and, moreover, I may be quite wrong. There is also 
another reason which disinclines me to speak.” 

“ Out with it ! let us get that over first,” he said. His 
manner was more hrusque even than usual ; it concealed 
an anxiety. 

“ Perhaps, Mr. Tremenhere, what I am about to say 
would not be to your taste. You have strong likings as 
well as prejudices. I do not wish to suffer in your opinion 
by going counter to one of them.” 

“ You shall not suffer ; even if you are wrong, I shall be 
your debtor, Mrs. Linden. Who is it you suspect ? ” 

“ I suspect no one. But, in my judgment the most 
likely quarter for danger to Grace to come is the one in 
which you have placed most confidence.” 

“ Lie dares not,” replied Mr. Tremenhere in low, hoarse 
tones. It was unnecessary to mention names, for his own 
eyes and those of his companion were fixed, while they 
were speaking, upon the man in question. Lie was standing 
with smiling lip, stroking a whisker “as the rabbit fondles 


28 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


his own harmless face,” between the two ladies, and 
making himself agreeable as it seemed to both of them. 

“ There is nothing in my opinion that he dares not do,” 
was Mrs. Linden's quiet rejoinder. “His will is as strong 
as yours, and he is very subtle.” 

“ You are right so far, but you do not understand how 
well he understands me. Moreover, if what you imagine 
were the fact, Agnes, who is as sharp-eyed as yourself, 
would not fail to discover it.” 

There was a reply on Mrs. Linden’s lips which, if ex- 
pressed, would have surprised her companion very much ; 
but it never passed them. 

“ Agnes suspects nothing because she deems her 
sister still a child,” she answered after a moment's pause. 

“ That very circumstance, however, may be to Grace’s dis- 
advantage. She may come under his influence without 
knowing it, and the knowledge may come too late.” 

It would have been impossible to guess from Mr. Tre- 
menhere's face that the suspicion of this very thing had 
already occurred to him, and that not an hour ago ; but 
he nodded and jerked his hand out in a manner that in- 
formed Mrs. Linden, who had studied his sign language to 
some purpose, that what she had said to him had had its 
weight, and would be attended to. His anger, however, 
must have been great, since even the presence of his little 
Fairy did not prevent his addressing his subordinate, 
when he came up with him, in the harshest tone. 

“ What are you hanging about here for, Roscoe, instead 
of making yourself useful about the place ? ” 

Mr. Roscoe looked quite unmoved, and, as Agnes knew, 
was perfectly well able to answer for himself under much 
more trying circumstances ; but to have him thus spoken 
to in the hearing of Mrs. Linden was unendurable to her. 

“ If there is any one to blame,” she interposed, “ blame 
me ; for it was at my request that Mr. Roscoe kept us 
company.” 

It was the first time she had ever evinced to her father 
the smallest interest in that gentleman, and she regretted 
the speech the instant she had uttered it. 

Mr. Tremenhere, however, did not appear displeased, 
and seemed even mollified by it. His suspicions had 
taken another direction, and been monopolized by another 
object. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


29 


“ In that case,” he said coldly, “ I will take Mr. 
Roscoe’s place ; ” and, so saying, he dismissed him with a 
wave of his hand. 

Mrs. Linden dowered Agnes with a smile of such quiet 
significance as that young lady would have liked to have 
recompensed by strangling her on the spot. 

Even in the richest households there are drawbacks to 
perfect happiness, and there was more than one skeleton 
in the closet at Lebanon Lodge, the existence of which it 
was highly desirable should not be suspected by an out- 
sider. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE WARNING. 

It was Mr. Tremenhere’s custom, when the labors of each 
day were over, to write down the result of them in a certain 
ledger, furnished with great locks like a prison door, in 
company with his faithful assistant, Mr. Roscoe. The 
place of meeting of these two recording angels was a small 
upper room (such as could not be spied upon), furnished 
like a bank parlor, and in which more money (in paper) 
was wont nightly to change hands than in the saloons of 
Monaco, and with a much greater percentage in favor of 
“ the table.” Even when there had been but little busi- 
ness done, they would still meet together and concert 
benevolent schemes for getting this and that poor fellow 
out of his difficulties, and also for recompensing themselves 
for their trouble in the matter. It was not done in the 
prim stiff way in which affairs are — sometimes — conducted 
in the city, but over cigars and brandy and soda ; and 
these discussions, especially so far as Josh was concerned, 
were carried on with much dramatic force and freedom 
from convention. These two spiders, working in the same 
web, were in strong contrast to one another ; the one 
somewhat bloated and unwieldy, but uncommonly deft 
and keen, and the other lank and agile, and quick to 
supply a thread where it was wanted, and the gluten to fix 
it. 

Even after the birthday party at Lebanon Lodge they 


30 


THE BURNT MILLION 


met as usual, though a trifle later ; for because a day had 
been spent in conviviality, it by no means followed with 
these diligent workers that no “ operation ” had been 
effected. From the flower Pleasure it was quite as much 
their habit to pluck the blossom Business as from the more 
ordinary sources ; the nettle Danger was more often 
bound up in it in that case than usual, and required their 
more particular attention. 

Mr. Tremenhere’s face was graver to-night than usual, 
and had even a sullen look, which, to do him justice, it 
rarely wore. If he was not the best-mannered man that 
ever picked pocket, as some eulogist described him, who 
knew perhaps more of pickpocketing than of manners, he 
was of a much more genial nature than could be expected 
from anyone in his line of business ; he had his likings, 
not altogether misplaced, and was always more willing to 
do a kindness that cost him nothing than an injury. He 
was not an honorable man, of course ; there were legal 
authorities of high standing who had pronounced him dis- 
honest ; but he was not one of your mean and miserly 
money-lenders. His huge fortune had not been built up 
'by scraping and paring ; it was even said that from bones 
on which he had found unexpected pickings he had some- 
times taken less than he might have done, though that idea 
perhaps owed its origin to the love of romance which, I 
am thankful to say, pervades every section of society. 
But he liked his comforts, and never allowed himself to be 
put out by a small thing. Yet it was a small thing, as 
Mr. Roscoe thought, that had put his companion out to- 
night, and, as his custom was, he at once grappled with it. 
His own marvellous power of intuition was one of the 
things, as he well knew, for which his lord and master 
valued him ; and he never shrank, as a mere subordinate 
would have done, from treading on a tender place, or 
hinting that the other had here and there been less saga- 
cious in his proceedings than became him. 

“ General St. Gatien tells me that you are going to let 
him have that money,” he observed quietly as he lit his 
cigar. 

Even in his talks with his patron, Mr. Roscoe always 
gave his clients their full title, whereas Josh was terribly at 
his ease in Zion, and would speak of persons of the highest 
position with the most shocking familiarity. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


3 1 


“ Of course you know 'best (a phrase he never used 
unless he was quite sure the other was in the wrong), but 
in my opinion the general is a squeezed lemon.” 

Mr. Tremenhere threw out his hand in his contemp- 
tuous fashion : 

“ Damn St. Gatien,” he said ; “ I’m going to have a 
word or two with you 1 ” 

Roscoe had a command over his features which would 
have fitted him for a diplomatist or a poker player of the 
highest order ; but, though he raised his eyebrows and 
looked up in his companion’s face with well-affected sur- 
prise, he felt the tell-tale color in his cheeks as he did 
so. 

“ If you are deceiving me, Edward Roscoe,” continued 
Mr. Tremenhere, speaking with a sternness that was 
almost savage in its intensity, and gazing at him with 
angry eyes, “ it will be the worst piece of work you 
ever did for yourself — by Heaven, it will ! ” 

“ Deceiving you, Mr. Tremenhere ? ” His tone was one 
of sheer amazement, but still the tell-tale blood would not 
be kept down, but rose and rose till it sank “ traitor ” in 
his very ears. 

Have I taken you from the gutter, I wonder, and 
clothed and taught and fed you, only that you should turn, 
like an ungrateful cur, and snap at my hand ? — for you 
cannot bite me, sir, you cannot bite me. Not” 

The speaker’s excitement was extreme, and made the 
greater impression on his companion, because such a state 
of mind in his patron was without a precedent. The fear 
which filled Mr. Roscoe’s mind was also as great a 
stranger there. He had secrets of his own — and dama- 
ging ones — but if all of them (save one) had been discov- 
ered, he would have met his accusers with a front of brass. 
The question that stirred his scheming soul to its muddy 
depths was, “ Had that one been discovered ? ” No ! if 
it had been, he would have been by this time in the street 
with Mr. Tremenhere’s door closed for ever behind him ; 
but, nevertheless, it might be suspected ; nothing less, 
he felt, than such a suspicion could have moved his patron 
thus. 

“ I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Tremenhere ; I 
cannot defend myself, since you are striking me in the 
dark. I only know that you are doing me a grievous 
wrong.” 


32 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


“ It may be so, I hope it is — for your sake, not for 
mine, sir, be sure of that. I say again, it does not lie 
within the power of man to hurt me ; I have no weak 
point — none.” 

His appearance physically was not corroborative of this 
statement. His huge and flabby frame shook from head to 
foot ; his eyes were bloodshot ; and on his forehead there 
was a ghastly dew. Under circumstances less affecting 
his own vital interests Mr. Roscoe would have been 
seriously alarmed for his patron; but for the moment it 
behoved him to look to himself alone, and be armed at all 
points, though indeed, if the stroke he awaited should be 
that he had in his mind, even his ready skill and buckler 
of bull's hide would little avail him. 

“ I am here to ask you nothing,” continued the money 
lender after a long pause ; “ for if you are guilty, I know I 
should meet with lies." 

It was not a complimentary observation, but, to the 
person addressed, it gave more satisfaction than under 
other circumstances any eulogy could have done. He 
uttered a silent sigh of relief, and bowed his head with 
Eastern humility — behavior so foreign to his character, 
that, if his companion had not been blinded with passion, 
it might have itself betrayed him. 

“ I am here, Edward Roscoe, to warn you for the first 
time and the last. You think yourself my right hand, 
and I do not deny your use ; you trade on it, I know, and 
I don’t blame you ; you have lived on the crumbs that 
have fallen from my table, and grown fat upon them ; let 
that content you. Beware of interfering between me and 
mine ! ” 

“Then it is so,” was the other’s inward thought; “he 
does suspect it.” He dared not meet his patron’s eye, but 
looking critically at his cigar (which was natural enough, 
since it had gone out, but that he did not notice), replied 
deferentially enough, “ I have no remembrance of ever 
having done so, Mr. Tremenhere.” 

“ Knowing me as you do,” continued the money-lender, 
without paying any attention to this disclaimer, “ you are 
aware, I suppose, that if any one of those men who were 
in the house to-day, men of rank and birth, some of them 
not without expectations, which no one knows better than 
myself how to realize, was to ask one of my daughters 
in marriage, what sort of answer he would get from me ? ” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


33 


“ I know that he might just as well ask for the moon,” 
replied the other drily. 

“ And if, notwithstanding that reply, he should put his 
design into execution, and persuade the silly girl to marry 
him, you know too what would happen then ? ” 

“ Nothing would happen,” returned Mr* Roscoe, forcing 
a smile, “ except that he would have found a wife. She 
would not, as I can well believe, be the heiress he had 
looked for.” 

“Heiress!” hissed the money-lender*, “while I lived 
she would not have a penny, and when I was dead she 
would have a shilling — just a shilling to show that I had 
not forgotten her.” 

“ Indeed, sir, I think it very probable.” 

“ Probable ? It would most certainly happen. My 
money shall never, never ” — here he struck the table with 
his large, nerveless hand, as a fishmonger smites his slab 
with a flat fish — “ feed the insatiable maw of any spend- 
thrift — no, not if he could make my girl a duchess. Do 
you think, then, it is likely that a low-born .schemer, who, 
notwithstanding his shrewd wits, and contempt for ne’er- 
do-wells, himself runs risks I know , and looks to become 
wealthy in a moment by a lucky stroke on ’change, would 
have a better chance of enriching himself by the same 
means at my expense ? ” 

Such an insult might have brought the blood to any 
man’s cheek, but it was not the insult that turned that of 
him to whom it was addressed to crimson. 

“ Such a character as you describe, Mr. Tremenhere,” 
he answered quietly, “ would have most certainly no 
chance at all.” 

“ You are right. Lay your own words to heart and 
profit by them. Stop ! ” — for the other was about to speak 
— “there is one thing more. Notwithstanding the convic- 
tion you have expressed, it is possible that you may enter- 
tain an illusion. You may think — though you ought to 
know me better — that, notwithstanding what I have said 
on this matter, and how fully purposed I am in my own 
mind about it, there is a weak point through which you 
may reach my heart and gain your ends. ‘ There is his 
little Fairy,’ you may be saying to yourself, ‘who is 
dearer to him than all his wealth, and whom he never 
would doom to — what he most despises and detests him- 

3 


34 


THE BURNT MILLION 


self — a life of poverty. If I could wind myself into her 
affection, and secure her for my own, he would forgive 
her, though he would never forgive me. Sooner or later 
he would come to terms; on his death-bed at least he 
would send for her, and say, ‘ you are my daughter 
still ; ’ if you are thinking that , Edward Roscoe, you are 
in a Fool’s Paradise indeed.” 

While his patron was thus speaking, the flush had gra- 
dually left the other’s cheek : a certain rigidity of limb, 
caused by some extreme tension of the nerves, had also 
disappeared ; except that he experienced a sense of relid 
instead of pain, he was like a man who recovers from a 
fainting fit, and though not unconscious of a danger nar* 
rowly escaped, begins to feel himself again. 

“ Mr. Tremenhere,” he replied, in a tone more grave 
than ordinary, but without a trace of his recent humility, 
“ you amaze me. I say nothing of the infamy that is pre> 
supposed in the monstrous offence which you would by 
implication impute to me, except that it is of so vile a 
character that, even with your low opinion of human 
nature, I feel confident it did not originate in your own 
mind. None but a woman, who had her own ends to 
serve, could have conceived it.” 

“ Never you mind how it got there,” answered the other 
curtly. “ It is there.” 

“ I see it is ; I see that your mind has been poisoned 
against me. Let it be so. Think anything of me that you 
please. Let me be as base and faithless to the trust you 
have placed in me as malice can paint. But, remember in 
so doing you impute ingratitude and disobedience to one 
whom you k?iow to be incapable of such offences, an inno- 
cent and loving child.” 

“ Pooh, pooh ! ” answered the other contemptuously. 
“ None of your heroics, sir. Of course she is innocent, 
but she is no longer a child. You sent her flowers to-day.” 

“ Her birthday ! Even if I had sent her diamonds, it 
would have been no such matter. I should not have 
dreamt of your objecting to it. She has been ‘ Grace’ to 
me ever since I have known her ; but henceforward she 
shall be ‘ Miss Grace,’ like her sisters. You were kind 
enough to say just now that anything I might allege in 
my own defence — against a charge of which I knew 
nothing, and as little expected it to be this as one of arson 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


35 


— would probably be lies. Ask, then, Miss Grace herself 
what I have said to her, how I have behaved to her, so 
long as she can remember. That I have not been truthful 
to her may be justly urged against me ; but did you wish 
me to be truthful to her ? When she asked her simple, 
ignorant questions about her father’s calling ” 

“ Be silent, sir,” interrupted the money-lender savagely, 
“ and let my Grace alone ! ” 

“As you please, Mr. Tremenhere, though it seems hard 
that a man’s mouth should be closed on the very matter 
which would establish his innocence. However, since that 
is forbidden ground, and also as it seems you think me 
knave enough for anything, the only line of defence that is 
left me is to plead that, if guilty, I am not responsible for 
my actions. If I have entertained such a project as has 
been suggested by you, I must certainly be stark staring 
mad. I put aside the fact that I am double the young 
lady’s age, and totally unfitted by my position to induce 
her (if the subject of matrimony has ever entered her 
mind, which I do not believe) to waste a thought on me ; 
I only urge this argument, that, since I have been your 
confidential clerk for many years, I know something of 
your character ; and what I have gathered from my study 
of it is that, so far from your affection for your youngest 
daughter being likely to mitigate in your eye any such act 
of folly and disobedience on her part, it would add fuel to 
fire. You are not a man to be crossed in anything on 
which you have set your mind ; but where you have set 
your heart , opposition, if I read you aright, would turn it 
from stone to steel. Knave let me be, if it is your plea- 
sure to consider me such*; but, whether blinded by your 
own passion or hoodwinked by another, I cannot believe 
that you have been brought to think Edward Roscoe a 
born fool.” 

These words flowed with a force and earnestness that, if 
they were feigned, would have proved the speaker to be a 
consummate actor indeed ; the expression of his face, as 
he stood steadily confronting the other, was almost con- 
temptuous in its defiant confidence ; his air had lost all its 
habitual secretiveness and reserve, and manifested, what 
had probably never been seen in it before, an honest 
indignation. 

“ It may be as you say, sir ; I hope it is,” was the cold 


3 * 


THE BURNT MILLION 


rejoinder. “ I have made no accusation against you, and 
I do not regret my word of warning — I have done.” 

These last words were uttered thickly and indistinctly, 
and had a terrible significance for the ear that heard them. 
The speaker’s face had turned purple, and had a look in it 
which agitated his companion with a strange mixture of 
hope and fear. 

“You are not well, Mr. Tremenhere? ” 

A sharp and bitter cry broke from the lips of the money- 
lender as he sank backwards in his chair. 

In a moment Roscoe was at his side, unloosing his 
neckcloth. It was an involuntary action, and after he had 
performed it, he remained motionless as a statue ; his eye 
mechanically sought the bottle of brandy, but his hand did 
not move towards it. He stood watching his master like 
a dog (but with no such faithful or anxious look), and with 
his ear on the stretch for any external sound. Would that 
scream have roused the house, he was wondering, or had 
no one heard it? Presently the money-lender opened his 
eyes. “ Brandy ! ” he gasped. With steady hand the 
other poured out a glassful and gave it him, like medicine 
to a child. The stimulant revived him. 

“ Tell no one of this,” he murmured. Roscoe inclined his 
head. 

“ If I had not thought such would have been your wish,” 
he answered gently, “ I should have called assistance.” 

“ You did quite right — another ! ” 

“ I am afraid you have been in great pain, sir,” said the 
other, as he obeyed him. 

“ Pain doesn’t express it ; it was torture — agony.” 

“ For the moment you lost your breath, I fear.” 

“ It was not breathlessness ; it was annihilation.” 

He felt for his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. 

“ That was the dew of death, Roscoe. But for you ” — 
he had caught sight of the neckcloth on his knee — “ I 
should have been gone ; I shall not forget it.” 

“ You make much of a trifle, Mr. Tremenhere.” 

“ A trifle, you call it ! By George, let me tell you it was 
Touch and Go ! ” 

There was no occasion to tell Mr. Roscoe that. He 
was fully conscious of the serious nature of his companion’s 
seizure, and also that, for the time at least, there was no 
further danger to be apprehended from it. The money- 


THE BURNT MILLION 


37 


lender’s face had assumed its normal complexion — not a 
particularly wholesome one, it is true, but with no resem- 
blance, such as it had so lately worn, to that of a man 
half-strangled ; it was curious, too, how, with returning 
life, his old manner of speech had been resumed, which, 
but now, in view of the Beckoning Hand, had been so 
apprehensively grave. 

“ Yes, you’ve had your warning, and I’ve had mine, the 
same evening,” he continued grimly; “but mine was a 
real notice to quit. What fools we are, even the sharpest 
of us 1 ” he added in a low voice. 

“ I beg your pardon, Mr. Tremenhere, I did not catch 
»vhat you were saying.” 

“ Never mind, it was not worth catching. Now I shall 
do.” And he looked towards his bedroom door, which 
communicated with the sitting-room. 

“ I don’t think you ought to be left, sir,” returned the 
other; “it will be no inconvenience to me to sleep here 
on the sofa, so as to hear you if you called.” 

The words were couched in dry, mechanical tones, little 
in accordance with the' sympathy they suggested, and the 
speaker kept his eyes upon the floor as he uttered them. 
Perhaps it was some sense of shortcoming in his manner, 
or even some expression in that downcast face, which the 
other was regarding very sharply, that caused Mr. Tremen- 
here to decline this offer, and without thanks. 

“ No, no, I shall be better alone,” he said with abrupt 
decision. “ Good-night.” 

“Very good.” Mr. Roscoe lit his candle and left the 
room. His patron listened for a moment as though to 
make sure the other had gone away, then moved to the 
door, and softly locked and bolted it. 

“ My nerves are thoroughly upset,” he muttered to 
himself. “ What could he hope to get by murdering me ? 
That woman was wrong, too, I’m pretty sure, about his 
having any designs on Grace ; still he might have had, and 
in that case, if I had died to-night — well, there shall be no 
more risks ; to-morrow it shall be done.” There was a 
large bookcase in the room filled mostly with legal works, 
and on the top shelf an encyclopaedia in many volumes ; 
he took down volume I. and turned to a certain article. 

“ Tnis disease,” it said, “ is characterized by intense 
pair* and sense of constriction; the paroxysms begin with 


38 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


the breastbone and extend to the shoulder. The fits recur, 
and the patient dies in one of them.” “ I thought so.” 
He put the book back carefully in its place, and reseated 
himself in his chair. “ I must not allow myself, it seems, 
to be put out by things as I was to-day. There will be no 
occasion to be put out when one has guarded against all 
possible consequences. And in the meantime nothing 
shall disturb me.” Nevertheless, though there was no 
recurrence of his malady, Mr. Tremenhere was a good deal 
disturbed that night. His sleep was broken, and once, 
an hour or two after he had retired to rest, he thought he 
heard the handle of his sitting-room door turned ; but that, 
no doubt, as he assured himself, *was fancy. With the 
morning light he was almost himself again; the impression 
of what he had suffered was still upon him, but greatly 
weakened ; and though he was no less determined to put 
into effect the resolution he had formed the previous night, 
there seemed no such pressing occasion for it. That informa- 
tion in the encyclopaedia was doubtless correct enough, 
but it might not apply to him. Since doubt, however, had 
become a factor in his case, there were two things to be 
done instead of one. 


CHAPTER VI.' 

AN HONEST LAWYER.^ 

The difference between the probability and the certainty 
of death, however slight in degree, is very marked as 
regards the feelings of him who is threatened with it. 
Even in a “forlorn hope” there is still a hope of life, and 
if there were none at all, there would be a great falling off 
in the number of volunteers. There are more people in 
the world, indeed, who wish to die than is commonly 
supposed, but still they are not numerous, and Mr. Joseph 
Tremenhere was certainly not among them. He had none 
of the fears that agitated Hamlet as regards the future ; 
though his motto of “No risks ” was not perhaps utterly 
lost sight of even in that matter ; but on the whole he was 
well content with this sublunary sphere, and he had a 
characteristic objection to exchange it for nothing — which 
was the alternative that he looked forward to. 


THE BURNT MILLION 


39 


After breakfast, on the morning after his “ shaking ” (as 
he now called it to himself), instead of sitting in his parlor 
as usual awaiting the bright-winged flies of pleasure, he left 
his assistant to entertain them, and took his way on foot 
to the house of a well-known physician. It was not his 
own doctor, though he had great confidence in that 
gentleman, and made use of him in a manner very unusual ; 
sent him a much larger crop of patients than generally 
arises from the seed of individual gratitude, and took an 
interest in their well-being, which, but for its close con- 
nection with finance, would have stamped him as a 
philanthropist. But though he had many secrets in 
common with him, he did not wish to make him the 
depository of his present apprehensions about himself. He 
preferred to consult a stranger. This resolve had its 
inconveniences ; for he might have to wait his turn for 
admission, and waiting — where he was paying for it instead 
of being paid — did not at all suit with Mr. Tremenhere’s 
humor. Who of us is so fortunate as not to be acquainted 
with that grim antechamber (the same all the world over) 
in which we await our summons to the (medical) hall of 
doom? When not used for its present purpose, it is a 
dining-room, but anything less suggestive of conviviality it 
is difficult to imagine. Will dainty dishes really in due 
course supply the place of those mouldy books and long- 
dead periodicals that lie on that funeral table ? Will these 
miserable fellow-creatures that surround us, dyspeptic, pale 
and silent, be succeeded by jovial guests? It seems 
impossible. Why do they look at each one as he enters 
with such serious disfavor, as if their chances of life were 
diminished by any addition to their numbers? It is 
because they believe that he has, like themselves, given a 
shilling to the butler to call him before his turn. In Josh’s 
case they were wrong ; for he had bribed the man with 
half-a-crown. 

“Mr. Tremenhere, by appointment ,” were the words 
that dropped with due solemnity from the lips of that 
discreet serving-man, the very next time he opened the 
door. It was even more improper in the patient than in 
the butler, but it should be charitably remembered that the 
Encyclopaedia had warned him to avoid all mental 
emotions, such as impatience, and “having to wait” was 
therefore bad for him. If those he had wronged could 


40 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


have seen Mr. Tremenhere’s face when he emerged from 
his interview with the doctor, they would have had their 
revenge. He had gone in with the expectation of hearing 
bad news, but not with the certainty of it ; he came out 
with the words of doom ringing in his ears. He had asked 
for the truth, in his plain-spoken way, and the truth had 
been told him. The doctor, knowing who he was, had 
taken an unusual interest in him ; a wise doctor always 
does in such cases ; human nature is almost as much his 
study as anatomy. This interest is quite independent of 
sympathy, or even pity. “ There is nothing so beautiful 
as a beautiful skin — except the skin disease,” said an 
enthusiastic surgeon ; and virtue still is a less attractive 
subject for moral diagnosis than its contrary. 

Sentence of death had been passed upon the great money- 
lender. To most people in such circumstances money 
would have taken a very secondary place in their 
reflections, but in those of Joseph Tremenhere it assumed 
even greater proportions than usual. There was not a 
moment, as it seemed to him, to be lost in putting out of 
the reach of harm, of guarding from greed and waste and 
folly, that treasure, the amassing of which had been the 
darling object of his laborious days. If life must needs 
be lost, that at least should be saved, and ip its entirety. 
The question Cui bono, for whose benefit it was to be 
saved, did not enter into his mind. The gold itself was 
the thing sacred to him, and required no temple to sanctify 
it. Curiously enough — though not so to those who are 

acquainted with the inconsistencies of human nature 

Mr. Tremenhere, despite the fancy value that he placed 
upon his riches, had not yet made his will. The folly of 
such an omission had never struck him till last night, and 
that soliloquy of his, “What fools we are, even the sharp- 
est of us ! ” had referred to it. But now he felt that he 
had not only been a fool but a madman. Like one who 
has been living in a costly but wooden house, which 
constitutes his whole property, and suddenly remembers, 
“ I am not insured,” he stood amazed and alarmed at his 
own recklessness. The very idea of the risk he had run 
brought on another risk ; his heart began to beat in an 
abnormal fashion; his terrified fancy pictured it as the 
premonitory symptom of that second “ seizure ” which the 
doctor had warned him would probably be his last. Ten 


THE BURNT MILLION , 


41 


thousand pounds out of his huge hoard he would have 
given gladly for the hours, not of respite from death, but 
of freedom from distracting thoughts and fears, so that he 
might accomplish the all-important task that lay before him 
with a clear brain. His ideas upon the matter — his testa- 
mentary intentions — had long been made up ; but all the 
complex plan would go for nothing unless he could com- 
municate it to another. 

He was in the street (how he got there he did not 
know), holding to a lamp-post, and looking to the passer- 
by like a man who had been overtaken, not so much by 
fate as by liquor. It was fortunately a very quiet 
thoroughfare, chiefly inhabited by doctors, and he gradually 
came to himself without having attracted public attention. 
He called a four-wheeled cab, and drove to a solicitor’s 
office at no great distance, and here again, as in the 
doctor’s case, he did not choose his own solicitor. He 
knew more than one gentleman of that profession, and was 
on much more intimate terms with them than is usually 
the case with lawyer and client, but he knew too much of 
them to wish them to know so much abotit him as it had 
become necessary to disclose. Mr. Allerton was a 
solicitor with whom indeed he had had dealings, and of a 
confidential nature, but they had not been amicable deal- 
ings. He had acted for Lord Morelia in connection with 
certain transactions which the money-lender had had with 
his lordship’s son and heir, and had expressed himself 
rather strongly on Mr. Tremenhere’s course of conduct. 
He had even gone so far as to say, in a conversation to 
which there were no witnesses, “ It is my opinion, Mr. 
Tremenhere, that you are acting like a rogue in this mat- 
ter.” 

But insinuations of that sort had never made the money- 
lender’s heart “ go ” ; he was too much accustomed to 
them ; moreover he had got the better of the lawyer in the 
affair in question, and could have afforded to put up with 
even stronger vituperation at the same price. He had a 
large charity under such circumstances for hasty expres- 
sions, and not only bore no malice because of them, but 
rather respected him who uttered them for his candor and 
perspicacity. There is a foolish saw about rogues believ- 
ing all other men to be as roguish as themselves ; but he 
must be a poor rogue indeed, and little likely to succeed 


42 


THE BURNT MILLION 


in his calling, who entertains any such belief. There is no 
one who understands the advantage of genuine honesty — 
and in his way appreciates it — better than your clever 
scoundrel. He may dislike the honest man exceedingly, 
but if he says he despises him, he is a liar. He has in 
truth a much higher opinion of him than of any one in the 
same line of business as himself. 

Mr. Allerton was what many people consider a rarity, an 
honest lawyer ; but he had characteristics of a still more 
unusual kind. It was cruelly said of one of his profession 
who pretended to have them, that, though a professing 
Christian, he was a practising attorney ; but Mr. Allerton 
was really a religious man. How it came about was of 
course a subject of great speculation. His detractors said 
that since Lord Morelia, his chief client, was one of the 
great leaders of the evangelical party, it was only natural 
— meaning that it was to his obvious interest — that Mr. 
Allerton should be evangelical too ; but those who said so 
knew little about him, or were very shallow critics. With 
this side of that gentleman's character, however, Mr. Tre- 
menhere did net concern himself ; he never meddled with 
matters he did not understand ; but he knew that Mr. 
Allerton was an honest and trustworthy man, and for that 
reason, and that reason only, he was about to entrust him 
with the knowledge — and he hoped the management — of 
his private affairs. 

On arriving at the lawyer’s office, he was shown into the 
waiting room, which he was well pleased to see unoccupied 
— and sent in his card. The clerk who took it came back 
with promptitude, and the intimation that Mr. Allerton was 
very particularly engaged. If Mr. Tremenhere had any 
communication to make, he added, Mr. Allerton would be 
very happy to receive it — in writing. 

Not the least disturbed by this rebuff, Mr. Tremenhere 
sat down and wrote, as requested, just half a dozen 
words. 

“ My business is of the most pressing importance, and 
has nothing whatever to do with Lord C.’s affairs.” 

This he sealed with wax before confiding it to the mes- 
senger. 

“Just give Mr. Allerton that," he said, wiih the air of a 
man who knows its contents will be attended to. Nor was 
his confidence misplaced. The clerk returned, though by 


THE BURNT MILLION 


43 


no means immediately, with a civil request that Mr. Tre- 
menhere would “ walk this way.’’ 

He knew the way very well, for he had often trodden it 
on no very agreeable errands, and the last time had been 
the occasion on which that injurious remark had been 
applied to him which the exigencies of our story have com- 
pelled us (with much regret) to quote. 

Mr. Allerton was a short, thin, wiry man, not much 
above middle age, but with a gravity of countenance that 
made him appear older than he was. He looked even 
graver than usual as the money-lender was announced, rose 
from his chair without, however, moving foot or hand, and 
looking keenly at his visitor through his spectacles, inquired 
in a tone that was far from conciliatory, “ To what am I 
indebted, Mr. Tremenhere, for this entirely unexpected 
visit ? ” 

“ I want your professional assistance on a matter of 
great moment, but not a disputed one, and solely in con- 
nection with my own affairs.” 

“Then I think you had better go elsewhere, sir; to 
speak frankly, I have no desire to be connected with them, 
or with you, in any way. I have no interest in your affairs, 
Mr. Tremenhere.” 

“ I venture to think that you will alter that opinion if 
you will have the patience to listen to me for five minutes,” 
was the money-lender’s quiet rejoinder. “ I am very 
unwell ; will you permit me to take a chair ? ” 

The lawyer frowned, but nodded ; his face had not one 
touch of sympathy ; he seemed to be saying to himself, like 
the diplomatist who heard that his astute rival was dying, 
“ I wonder what he does that for.” 

“ I am quite aware, Mr. Allerton, of the opinion you 
entertain of me; and have neither the time, nor, to say 
truth, the desire to attempt to controvert it. I know that 
I have no claim upon your attention whatever, save one, 
our common humanity.” 

“ Those are strange words to come from your lips, Mr. 
Tremenhere,” said the lawyer coldly, but looking at his 
visitor with some curiosity too. He was obliged to 
acknowledge to himself that the man looked ill, and the 
sense of having wronged him so far had its effect on him. 

“ I have just come from a doctor’s consulting room, who 
is not given to false predictions, and he has told me that 


44 


THE BURNT MILLION 


my life hangs on a thread. Let the extreme urgency of my 
case excuse, at least, my intrusion.” 

“ But why come to me , Mr. Tremenhere ? You have 
friends of your own, as I have reason to know, learned in 
the law.” 

“ Rogues all,” interrupted the money-lender curtly ; 
“ rogues all. I come to you because you are an honest 
man.” 

A dry smile parted the lawyer’s lips. 

“You think that a strange reason to actuate me, Mr. 
Allerton. You may think anything you like, if you will 
only act for me. I want you to make my will.” 

The lawyer shook his head. “ I have no hesitation in 
saying that I positively decline that honor.” 

“ Do you refuse to oblige a dying man by performing an 
ordinary duty of your profession ? This is not what I 
expected of one whose name is synonymous with good 
feeling as well as honesty. In any other case I should 
have appealed at first to an instinct which in yours, as I 
am well convinced, has less influence, namely self-interest. 
I propose to give you a thousand pounds for this great 
service.” 

“ A thousand pounds ! ” Mr. Allerton was human, and 
in whose bosom beats the heart where the notion of earn- 
ing a thousand pounds in an hour or two does not touch 
some sympathetic chord ? He was moved for a moment ; 
then suddenly recovering himself, he exclaimed with some 
heat, “ You must be insulting me, sir ; your intention must 
be to bribe me to do something dishonorable.” 

“ A very natural supposition, I admit,” said the money- 
lender blandly. “ But your suspicion is quite without 
foundation, as you will soon be convinced. I ought to 
have added that the sum in question is contingent upon 
your accepting the executorship.” 

“ The executorship ! Do you suppose I am going to 
draw up a will out of which I am myself to receive a thou- 
sand pounds ? ” 

“Why not? It is no ordinary will, I promise you. If 
it were five hundred there would be nothing strange or 
uncommon, if it were in due proportion to the bulk of the 
whole bequest, and in this case that is a million of money.” 

Even in the perilous state in which the money-lender 
stood — with the grave, as he felt, gaping for him, and all 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


45 


the things of this world, which had had so magnetic an 
attraction for him, slipping from his grasp — he uttered 
those last words with a certain proud complacency. Nor 
were they without their effect upon the lawyer himself. 
He was used to deal with large sums, but he knew how 
seldom a fortune of this size was placed at the sole dispo- 
sal of a single individual. There was wonder — perhaps 
even a gleam of admiration — in his keen grey eyes ; he 
was dazzled in spite of himself. 

“Of course,” continued the money-lender, “a man in 
your position, who is so good as to undertake this trust, 
will not be treated as a layman. There may be — there 
must be — many obligations connected with it, the dis- 
charge of each of which will, of course, receive its proper 
remuneration. If I were speaking to some lawyers whom 
you and I know, I should say, ‘ There will be pretty pick- 
ings ; ’ but I am well aware that such considerations will 
have little weight with you. What I would rather dwell 
upon is the opportunities such a position will afford you of 
administering a vast estate to good advantage — the advan- 
tage that is,” he added hastily, “ of helpless and innocent 
young people — for I have three daughters, Mr. Allerton, 
who are not so well acquainted with finance as their father, 
and will doubtless stand in need of your advice and assist- 
ance.” 

The latter part of this statement would have been the 
reverse of attractive to most persons, but Mr. Tremenhere 
knew his man. Mr. Allerton was not averse to play the 
part of mentor to his clients ; nor can we doubt that the 
knowledge, that in this case he would be handsomely paid 
for it, had its weight. Moreover, which was a great point 
with him, he would be robbing no one. If the money was 
the orphan’s, it was not the sort of orphan that we are in 
the habit of associating with the widow ; his little charges 
would be mere flea-bites to her. He felt much as the 
honest divine feels who is translated to another benefice, 
that it would be “ a wider sphere of usefulness,” and also 
involve an increase of stipend. 

The lawyer looked at Mr. Tremenhere as certainly he 
had never thought to look — with something of personal 
interest as well as curiosity — as he replied : 

“ Well, well, we’ll see about it. I’ll think it over.” 


46 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE WILL. 

When a man says on any previously debated question 
(provided it is not an appeal to his purse-strings) that he 
will “ think it over,” his antagonist may generally congratu- 
late himself on having gained his point ; and under ordinary 
circumstances Mr. Tremenhere would have felt satisfied 
with the success he had so far achieved in a not very pro- 
mising case. But there was that within him that “ voted 
urgency ” in this matter, and made procrastination almost 
one with failure. 

“ You are forgetting, Mr. Allerton, what I told you about 
the state of my health ; whatever is to be done, it above 
all things behoves me to do it quickly.” 

There was that in the money-lender’s words that reminded 
the lawyer of the unjust steward, and for a moment he 
hesitated as to whether he should comply with his request 
or not ; that he was touching pitch there was no doubt 
whatever; but his hands were at least less likely to be 
defiled by it than those of any other man whom Mr. Tre- 
menhere would be likely to employ ; and then there was 
the thousand pounds down, and the pickings, and the 
opportunities for good. 

“ I suppose I must oblige you, Mr. Tremenhere,” he 
said with a sigh, which blew away his last remnant of 
opposition, and the two men drew their chairs together. 
Like adversaries at whist, who cut and find themselves in 
partnership with one another, their old antagonism ceased 
at once, and they became lawyer and client. 

Though Mr. Tremenhere’s fortune was so immense, it 
was not one of those properties which, like port wine, takes 
time to settle. Almost the whole of it, save his Cumber- 
land estate and his lease of Lebanon Lodge, was in what 
might be almost termed hard cash ; securities, a list of 
which he had taken the precaution to bring with him. 
His knowledge of business matters was fully as great as 


THE BURNT MILLION \ 


47 


that of his companion, and he knew exactly what he wanted 
— an attribute rare indeed, and which facilitates the oper- 
ation of will-making above all others. Moreover, all that 
he desired at present was a synopsis of his intentions, duly 
witnessed, which, though valid in itself, might afterwards 
be expanded into a larger testament, should time and 
health be granted to him. This last circumstance, as it 
happened, was of great service to him in overcoming, here 
and there, certain objections on the lawyer’s part, who 
would certainly have shown a more obstinate front but for 
the thought of the better opportunity that would presently 
be afforded him of arguing the matter. 

“ I set this down under protest, Mr. Tremenhere,” he 
said more than once ; “ I hope you will remember this.” 
And at the words, “ To my faithful clerk and assistant Ed- 
ward Roscoe I bequeath the sum of 5,000/.” he could not 
restrain an ejaculation of astonishment. It was an unu- 
sual thing to do, of course ; the will-maker should be a 
machine in such cases ; but then he knew the gentleman — 
not personally but in his relations with his client — so 
well. 

“ Quite so ; I know what you are thinking, Mr. Aller- 
ton,” said the money-lender, “as though you spoke it. 
He has feathered his nest pretty well for himself, no doubt, 
and out of my birds ; but this is a promise. He saved my 
life last night, when he might have let me die, and greatly 
to his own advantage. It cannot happen now, as I shall 
frankly tell him, in case the temptation should occur again 
and be too strong for him. But one must keep one’s word. 
You will do me the justice to say, I think, that I have 
always done that much.” 

Mr. Allerton inclined his head assentingly ; he could do 
so without scruple ; Josh’s word had always been as good 
as his bond, which could only in a facetious sense have 
been said of most of those he dealt with. His will had 
been strong, but his promise had been irrefragable, how- 
ever much to his disadvantage might have been its per- 
formance. 

There were items in Mr. Tremenhere’s testamentary 
instructions which went more against the grain with Mr. 
Allerton than that legacy to Mr. Roscoe ; and though he 
looked upon the document as a temporary one, or rather 
as a Bill in Parliament which the Opposition permits to 


THE BURNT MILLION 


4 * 

pass upon the understanding that it shall be altered in com- 
mittee, he did not hesitate to express his disapproval of it. 

• “ I call this will of yours a cruel will, Mr. Trernenhere,” 
he said deliberately when all was done. 

“ I am cruel only to be kind,” answered the money-lender. 

“ That is of course your view ; I do not accuse you of 
positive injustice, or I should not be acting for you ; but 
in my opinion you are flying in the face of nature. Those 
who are dearest to you will think so, and not thank you 
for it.” 

“ Then that will be because they don’t know what is 
good for them,” was the quiet rejoinder. 

“ They know better than you do,” replied the lawyer 
curtly ; “ what seems to you the highest good, at all 
events,” he added in a more conciliatory tone, “ will not 
seem so to them. Money is not everything, Mr. Tremen- 
here, to everybody even in this world.” 

“ No doubt ; but if they prefer something else — call it 
by what name you will — there is nothing here to prevent 
them indulging their inclinations. If they choose to be 
Quixotic they can be so, and yet not starve.” 

“ Yes, fortunately, for your intentions there are certain 
1 gifts over,’ independent of the conditions ; but even so, 
if this testament should be disputed, it is my duty to tell 
you that is by no means unassailable.” 

“ Do you mean to say that a man cannot leave his own 
money as he pleases ? ” inquired Mr. Trernenhere scorn- 
fully. 

“ Certainly not, in all cases,” returned the lawyer drily. 
“ I do not say, however, that all I have set down here is 
not perfectly legal ; but the Court is always prone, and 
rightly prone, to look with a jealous eye, unless there are 
the strongest reasons for it, on any restraint.” 

“ And is religious scruple not a reason ? ” put in the 
money-lender, with virtuous indignation. 

Mr. Allerton passed his hand over his lips to hide a 
smile. 

“ That also has been a point to be decided by the judge, 
ever since Lord Hardwicke’s time. However, as I have 
told you, the conditions are perfectly legal. But I say 
again, Mr. Trernenhere, that it is a cruel will.” 

“ I am sorry that you entertain that opinion, but I think 
a father should be the best judge of the interests of his 


THE BURNT MILLION 


49 


own children. Outside that, if you have any objection to 
offer, I am ready to hear it." 

“ Then permit me to say that I think this conditional 
reversion of your property towards the discharge of the 
National Debt is very little to your credit. It surprises 
me more than your other provisions, though it shocks me 
less. I should have thought a man like you would be 
above such egotism." 

“ Very good," said the money-lender, indifferently, “let 
us strike that out.” 

This ready compliance with his suggestion amazed the 
lawyer and gave him hopes. It was plain that the 
expression of his views had no little influence with his 
strange client ; and it surely behoved him to do his best 
to guide him aright. 

“ Mr. Tremenhere," he said, in a tone very different from 
that he had hitherto used, “ you have just now asked me 
to bear witness to your fidelity to your word ; may I ask 
you, in return, to believe that I am no hypocrite ? " 

“ I am quite sure that you are not," answered the other, 
simply ; “ if I had thought so, I should not be here.” 

“ Then let me adjure you to think again before you leave 
this legacy of wrong behind you. Do one good act, at all 
events, upon which, when you come to lie on your death- 
bed, you may look with satisfaction.” 

“ I shall have no death-bed," was the dry rejoinder, 
“ I shall die suddenly, Mr. Allerton ; very likely in the 
street.” 

“ Then between this and then, let there be something on 
which your mind can rest with comfort. I cannot see into 
your mind, but I am much mistaken if there is not some- 
thing that troubles it. You are not so satisfied with what 
you have just done here ” — he laid his finger on the will — 
“ as you would have me believe." 

“ I am perfectly satisfied with it." 

“ I am sorry to hear it ; it is not my business to speak 
of such things, but is there nothing you repent of, and for 
which even now some reparation can be made ? " 

The speaker was like one who shoots at a venture, but 
where he knows there is plenty of game. 

" Yes ! " interrupted the money-lender sharply ; “ there 
is no need to go into the matter, but there is. I am 
obliged to you for reminding me of it. Instead of my ^ro- 

4 


5 <> 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


perty, in the contingencies referred to, reverting to the 
State, let it in the first instance revert to Robert Vernon 
— Heaven knows where he is now, but you may say some 
time of Cockermouth.” 

“ A relation ? ” 

“ Yes ; the only one I have in the world — my cousin.” 

“ There is some sense in that , at all events,” observed 
the lawyer, as he made the alteration in favor of Robert 
Vernon or the heirs of his body. He had seen too much 
of the “pious founder” to have any respect for him , and 
he had almost as much objection to the posthumous bene- 
factors of the State. 

Then he copied out the will with his own hand, and two 
of his clerks came in and witnessed it. 

“ You have laid me under a great obligation,” said the 
money-lender, when all was done. 

“ You will best discharge it, Mr. Tremenhere,” returned 
the other gravely, “ by taking a juster view of your respon- 
sibilities when we are treating this affair at large.” 

Mr. Tremenhere smiled and held out his hand, which, 
this time, was not refused. 

As “ a fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind,” so a com- 
mon interest unites those who would be otherwise as far 
asunder as the poles. 

“ If you will call in some day and made the acquaintance 
of my girls, Mr. Allerton, I should take it as a great kind- 
ness. It will make things easier for them afterwards. 
You know Lebanon Lodge?” 

“Very well,” replied the lawyer; but whether the 
answer referred to the invitation, or only to his knowledge 
of the locality, was doubtful. 

Mr. Allerton knew Lebanon Lodge well enough, but 
hitherto it had certainly not been one of the places on his 
visiting list. What would Lord Morelia say, he wondered, 
with his dry smile, if he came to know that Josh Tremen- 
here had become a client of his ? 

The money-lender left Mr. Allerton’s office in a more 
tranquil frame of mind than that with which he had 
entered it. Even physically his visit to the lawyer had 
benefited him as much as that to the physician had 
depressed him. He felt that so far as the future was 
concerned — for Mr. Tremenhere’s horizon was a very 
limited one — he could now snap his fingers at Fate. His 


THE BURNT MILLION 


5 1 


reflections were no longer personal, as they had been a 
few hours ago ; his mind was free to concern itself with 
others. He was just as likely to die as before, of course, 
but the matter was not so pressing, or important, and he 
could speculate upon it apart from himself. What would 
become, he wondered, with a grim smile, of that wild 
team of thoroughbreds he had so well in hand, but of the 
management of which none but he possessed the secret ? 
How they would rear and bolt, and kick over the traces, 
and upset the coach, when he should be no longer on the 
box-seat ! Roscoe thought a good deal of himself as a 
whip, no doubt, but he would probably make a precious 
mess of it. Mr. Tremenhere felt the same satisfaction in 
contemplating the overturn as did the diplomatist 
who observed “ After me the Deluge.” Roscoe would step 
into his shoes, no doubt, and try to wear them, unless 
indeed he contemplated that shorter way to wealth of 
which he had so lately accused him. Whether he did so 
or not was not of much consequence now ; but either way 
there would be disappointments for Roscoe. Five thou- 
sand pounds is a large bequest to one who is no relation 
to the testator, but he was well aware that it would not 
satisfy the legatee in this case. He would look for more 
than half per cent, of what his employer left behind him : 
for he had good reason to expect to be left executor. It 
is not always a judicious act, however, to make a poacher 
one’s gamekeeper. How he would stare to find Allerton’s 
name, of all names, in that little document that had just 
been executed, instead of his own. And, above all, how 
the document itself would make him stare ! 

“ You are not so satisfied with it as you would have me 
believe,” the lawyer had said ; but he was perfectly satis- 
fied with it. “ A juster view of your responsibilities,” 
forsooth ; that was the only bit of cant which the other 
had indulged in ; that and his absurd remark that the girls 
knew what was good for them better that he did. Why 
Allerton didn’t even know the girls. Would he call, he 
wondered, and see Grace? She would be certain to 
interest him, and it would be well indeed for his little 
Fairy to do so ; to have someone, outside Lebanon Lodge 
and all belonging to it, to whom to apply for counsel. 

He was walking through the park beside the Row, but 
at the upper end of it, where there were few people, and 
sat down on an empty bench to rest a little. 


52 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


His little Fairy ! She was the only being, as he believed, 
in all the world that would regret him ; and even so would 
be regretting some one else that was not himself at all. It 
would be better for her that he should go before her eyes 
were opened. If his chances of life had been good, things 
might have been very different. As he thoughtfully 
puffed at his cigar and watched the smoke, a picture rose 
before him of what might have been. He saw himself 
“ retired from business ; ” greatly looked up to by the 
world at large on account of the money he had made, but 
with no desire — and this was the strangest part of his 
dream — to increase his store. He had no friends, for he 
had never made any, nor sought to make them ; but there 
was one house which was always open to him, and where 
he was welcomed by its mistress with open arms. It was 
one of those “ stately homes of England,” at whose size and 
splendor foreigners stand amazed ; a place he had seen 
pictured many times. Its master was a young fellow he 
had always liked, but there had been faults and flaws in 
him of old which no longer existed. He was a peer of the 
realm, but also a good husband. There were little chil- 
dren in the house, one of them the image of his little Fairy 
as she had looked some twelve years ago or so, and they 
called him “ Grandpapa.” 

It was rather a snobbish and pinchbeck dream, perhaps, 
but such as it was it soothed and pleased him wonderfully. 
He felt quite annoyed when a couple of riders, passing at 
full speed, aroused him from it. 

“ How are you, Josh ? ” one called out as they swept by, 
and afterwards the breeze brought to his ear from both of 
them — or so it seemed to him — a sound of mocking 
laughter. 

The horsemen were Lord Cheribert and General St. 
Gatien. 

There was nothing of novelty in the incident ; certainly 
nothing that under ordinary circumstances would have ruf- 
fled the money-lender ; but, just now, it did ruffle him. 

“ I have been an old fool,” he murmured ; “ but only 
for five minutes. It shall never happen again. St. Gatien 
yonder was once good enough to tell me that he had heard 
Josh Tremenhere called all sorts of names, but that he had 
never heard anybody call him a fool. And I’ll take good 
care that it never shall be so.” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


53 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE FIRE. 

The niceties of religious scruple are among the most 
curious things in human nature, and not the less so to 
those who entertain them — though in a different form from 
those which excite their wonder — themselves. I have 
seen an excellent young woman, devoted to suet pudding 
and treacle, take the pudding without the treacle because 
the day was a Friday. I have known a man, who wouldn’t 
touch a card on Sunday for the wealth of the Indies, play 
at bagatelle without a prick of conscience. It is in the 
matter of amusement, indeed, in which these refinements 
of propriety are most observable. In what is called “ the 
religious world,” for example, to take a walk upon a Sunday 
(except in some part of Scotland) is permissible, but to 
mount a tricycle is sacrilegious ; to attend dramatic repre- 
sentations is held to be impious, but to listen to Shakes- 
p.eare Readings is an innocent recreation. The opera is a 
' synonym for the infernal regions, but the concert room is a 
place which the best of men can patronize without risk of 
their eternal welfare. 

That a person of good sense and intelligence like Mr. 
Allerton should strain at these gnats, and yet be a solici- 
tor in large practice, may seen strange ; but he did other 
things quite as unwarrantable in the eyes of reason, which 
the world at large was not at all surprised at. He was a 
bachelor, and had no one to work for but himself ; he was 
not greedy for gain, and yet he passed eight hours a day 
in a dingy office, adding to a fortune that was already far 
too large for his simple needs. For my part, such con- 
duct seems the act of an idiot ; but other people may 
think vie an idiot for indulging in my little eccentricities, 
which travel in another direction. We all possess glass 
houses of some kind or another — though yours and mine, 
reader, are mere cucumber frames — and should not throw 
stones. 


54 


THE BURNT MILLION 


Mr. Allerton was very fond of music, though he would 
not have listened to an orchestra in a theatre to oblige 
Lord Morelia himself (and, indeed, it was very unlikely 
that his lordship would have asked that favor of him ) ; he 
thought it no harm, a few nights after his interview with 
Mr. Tremenhere, to find himself sitting in a stall at the 
new Harmony Hall in South Kensington. 

It was an edifice the old lawyer knew something about, 
for he had been the solicitor to the company who had buijt 
it, but it was not on that account that it now enjoyed his 
patronage ; he would have gone anywhere else, and at no 
small inconvenience to himself, to hear such singing as its 
programme promised him to-night. He had come early, 
though not so much from fearing to miss any of it as from 
habit — you could be five minutes too late for everything in 
the world worth having, he used to say, but you could not 
be five minutes too soon — and he amused himself by 
watching the house fill. He was a little deaf, and had con- 
sequently taken a stall close to the stage, and he stood up 
with his back to it, opera glass in hand, and looked about 
him. There were a good many people he knew, and they 
him ; for the most part, quiet, unfashionable folks, very 
different from the sparkling throng that chat and smile 
with one another at the playhouse ; he thought little of 
them at the time, but circumstances afterwards arose which 
caused him to remember them all very particularly. In 
his vicinity, however, there were only strangers. Presently 
a party of three entered the house, one of whom at once 
arrested his attention. She was a young girl of great 
beauty, but what attracted him in her was the animation 
and pleasure that lit up her face. Scenes of public amuse- 
ment, it was plain, were unfamiliar to her ; and she was 
looking forward to her coming treat with childish expec- 
tation. Innocence has an attraction, it is said, for lawyers, 
but for this one it had a peculiar and quite unprofessional 
charm ; like the spectacle of a fair landscape at early 
dawn, it seemed to do Mr. Allerton good. He was so 
rapt in contemplation of the girl that only the sense that 
she was growing much too large reminded him that he 
might be bestowing an unacceptable attention on her. 
She was coming very near him, and he shut up his glasses 
rather hastily and took his seat, and consulted his pro- 
gramme. When he looked up from it he perceived, not 
without satisfaction, that she was sitting next to him. 


THE BURNT MILLION, 


55 


“ What a wicked old man ! ” some people would have 
said, had he confessed as much ; “ some people ” are 
unable to appreciate the finer pleasures ; what he looked 
forward to was a reflected happiness, the delight he knew 
would be aroused in that charming and innocent face at 
what she had come to hear. Beside her, of course, were 
sitting her two companions, one of them a tall, well built 
man, of powerful frame, and with a face that most persons 
would have pronounced handsome ; when he smiled, it 
was certainly so, but when he was not smiling, it struck 
the lawyer that it had a sinister expression. He was dark, 
like the young lady, but had no other resemblance to her*; 
he could hardly be her father, yet his manner to her seemed 
parental, affectionate, and almost playful in its protective 
kindness ; with the other, a commonplace young woman, 
tolerably good-looking, and with very bright eyes, he was 
familiar, but less demonstratively so. Mr. Allerton 
concluded, though there was a considerable difference in 
their ages, that the party were brother and sisters. 

The performance was musical as well as vocal, and 
when the notes of the organ, “ like a god in pain,” began 
to fill the hushed air, “it was pretty” (as Mr. Pepys with 
much inappropriateness would have said) to watch the 
changes that swept over the girl’s speaking face. At times, 
even, thought Mr. Allerton, in his “ serious,” commonplace 
way, she seemed to be communing with the blessed angels 
themselves ; at others, the dew stood in her eyes and an 
intense melancholy seemed to hold possession of her, 
caused, perhaps, by some exaggerated sense of her own 
unworthiness. 

When the first singer came to the front she was less 
moved, but not less pleasant to look upon, for she was more 
herself. The song was a very difficult one, and tried the 
vocal powers to the utmost ; she seemed to follow every 
note and sympathize with every obstacle surmounted, and 
her small hands met together at the close with eager 
appreciation. But with the enthusiasm it evoked in some 
quarters it was plain she had no sympathy ; it touched the 
sense for her, but not the soul. Then came a simple 
ballad, such as when trilled by a cracked voice in the 
streets will reach the heart, but when sung, as now, by one 
formed by art and nature to do justice to it, makes the 
whole world of listeners kin. In the midst of it, whilst the 


56 


THE BURNT MILLION 


girl was weeping with bowed down head, Mr. Allertonand 
her companion shot a glance at one another oyer it, full of 
dread significance. There was smoke proceeding from one 
side of the stage, followed by a solitary tongue of flame. 

“ Fire ! Fire ! ” screamed someone from the gallery, 
and the whole house rose at once as at the National 
Anthem, only a great deal quicker. 

“ Fire ! Fire ! ” was echoed in a dozen places, and all 
that decorous, respectable assemblage was transformed in^ 
another instant to a Pandemonium. 

It is easy to say “ What cowards ! ” as we read of such 
things in our own chairs at home, with the serene conviction 
that if such an event had happened to ourselves, we 
should have been as cool as cucumbers ; but the fact is 
there is a thing called “panic” against which ordinary 
courage — the courage of the soldier — struggles in vain ; 
even the Die Hards, we read, were once victims to it. 
Nevertheless there were a few exceptions to the general 
stampede that at once took place from every part of the 
concert room. Mr. Allerton’s first thought was for the 
girl beside him. He heard her companion exclaim, 
“ Keep your seats, both of you ! ” by which he knew that 
he was well fitted to be a protector to one of them ; but it 
was also plain that in that raging rout no one man, how- 
ever strong and resolute, could save two helpless women. 
The same thought, he saw, was passing through the other’s 
mind. Even in that awful moment the passions depicted 
on that swarthy face did not escape his observation ; its 
vehement resentment of the Fate that seemed about to 
overtake them, and then the terrible struggle as to which 
of his two charges should be his care could be read 
distinctly in it;. and finally — though the whole thing did 
not take^ a moment — the man’s eyes fixed themselves on 
the elder woman. 

“ I will take care of the young lady,” said the lawyer, in 
quiet but unhesitating tones. 

“Thank you, Mr. Allerton,” returned the other, a flush 
of gratitude lighting up his dark features ; “ there is not a 
moment to lose.” 

If there had been, the fact of being addressed by his 
own name would certainly have struck the lawyer ; but at 
the time he was unconscious of aught but the peril to 
Vhich the other referred. The flame was already licking 


THE BURNT MILLION 


57 


the side scenes, and the heat was becoming unbearable ; 
the advice of “ Keep your seats ” to those who, like them- 
selves, were near the stage could no longer be followed. 
The two men helped the women over the backs of the 
emptied stalls to the last row, and waited for the doorway 
to be cleared. The spectacle was frightful. The room 
itself, in spite of the myriad lights that hung about it, was 
getting dim with smoke, but they could see the remnant of 
the frantic crowd fighting and tearing at one another at the 
narrow exit like fiends incarnate. The girl released her 
arm from Mr. Allerton’s hold, and covered her face with 
her hands, as if to shut out the shocking scene. She had 
not spoken a word from first to last, but had done exactly 
as he had instructed her to do ; whereas her sister had 
uttered shriek on shriek, and had been so possessed with 
terror that her companion had had to carry her in his arms 
over the last three rows of stalls. In spite of their terrible 
situation this had aroused his anger. 

“ If you mean to perish miserably, you are going the 
way to do it, Philippa,” he exclaimed in passionate tones ; 
u whereas if you will but keep your feet and stick to me, 
I will cut my way through these cowardly fools ; ” and he 
had looked at them as he spoke so savagely that it was 
easy to imagine him, hatchet in hand, putting his threat 
into execution. His words, however inappropriate from a 
moral point of view, were not without their good effect 
upon the person he addressed, and revived her not a little, 
as harshness is said to bring to themselves persons in hys- 
terics. She murmured something in his ear, to which he 
nodded a grim assent. 

Mr. Allerton would have been incapable of applying such 
strong remedies, even if the case of his companion had 
called for them, but? he too addressed a few words to her 
of quiet assurance. 

“ The doorway will soon be clear, my dear,” he said ; 
“ and you may be sure, whatever happens, that I will not 
desert you.” 

She looked up in his pitiful eyes with an expression of 
ineffable gratitude, reading the generous and earnest pur- 
pose in them, and murmured her simple trust in him. It 
seemed to both these strangers of five minutes ago that 
they had known one another for years. By this time the 
fire had wrapped the whole of the stage, and sparks from 


58 


THE BURNT MILLION 


they knew not whence were flying in all directions. They 
all moved hastily towards the door, now blocked by only a 
few stragglers, and presently emerged with them into a low 
and narrow passage. Except that the fire was for the 
moment hidden from view, their position seemed now even 
more hopeless and inextricable. A compact mass of 
human beings, their features distorted with rage and fear, 
their garments torn and dishevelled, and trampling one 
another under foot with the most shocking indifference, 
filled the entire space between them and the entrance 
hall. 

“ There are no stairs,” Mr. Allerton heard his male com- 
panion mutter, as if to himself ; then aloud, “ Philippa, 
put your arms round my waist, and if you loose your hold, 
remember, you lose your life.” 

As he spoke the words, he threw himself on the strug- 
gling throng, and by sheer strength like a wedge beaten by 
the hammer, forced his way slowly through it, dragging 
his companion after him. 

“ I have not the strength for that/’ murmured Mr. 
Allerton, “ even if I had the will.” 

The girl at his side heard him ; the look of fear in her 
pale face had changed to one of horror. 

“ I would rather die,” she said, “ than do it.” 

To die to some persons is easy, but to perish by devour- 
ing flame is appalling to the best and bravest of us. The 
air in the un ventilated passage was by this time almost 
suffocating, and above the crackle and the roar of the fire 
rose the eddying smoke and found its way to them. The 
mass of people in front was moving onward, but almost as 
imperceptibly as the march of a glacier ; it seemed impos- 
sible that the last of them — and they two were the very 
last — could reach the outer air alive. 

Suddenly a thought struck Mr. Allerton ; there rose up 
before his inward eye a plan of the hall, as he had seen it 
before it was built. From one of the two passages open- 
ing from the stalls, there was a stone staircase, he remem- 
bered, leading under the stage, and at the side of it a door 
opening into an unfrequented court ; his impression was 
that it was the passage in which they were, but he was not 
sure. We cry for faith in the fathomless Future, but what 
would he not have given — about this matter of the Present 
seemingly so small — for certainty ! Should he try that way 


THE BURNT MILLION 


59 


and be mistaken, they would both without doubt be lost ; 
yet the other way seemed almost devoid of hope. For 
once the lawyer felt a responsibility that was too great for 
his own shoulders. Like a rider who has lost his way, and 
in despair throws his reins upon his horse’s neck, he 
decided to leave the matter to his companion’s choice ; 
there was no instinct, indeed, in her case to guide her, but 
perhaps He, who gives instinct and all other good things 
to His creatures, might in His mercy give this innocent 
girl a right judgment. In a few hasty words he therefore 
put the matter before her. 

“ If I am wrong, my child,” he added, but the thought, 
that in that case she would perish and by his own act, was 
too much for him, and he could not finish the sentence. 

“If you are wrong,” she put in, “you will have done 
your best for me ” — it was not selfishness but her apprecia- 
tion of the nobility of the other’s conduct that forbad her 
to say “for us” — “ and more than could have been looked 
for in any stranger. As to my choice in that matter, I say 
any way but that way,” and she pointed with a shoulder to 
the surging crowd above which her late companion’s form 
could be discovered at some distance battling without 
scruple, but not without success, for the dear life. 

“ So be it then,” said Mr. Allerton solemnly ; “ this way, 
my child.” And he took her hand as though she were a 
child indeed. In turning their back on their fellow-crea- 
tures, they did not feel as if they were deserting them, but 
rather as if they themselves were bidding good-bye to life. 
If the crowd in fact had turned to the right instead of the 
left, not one in ten would probably have been then alive, but 
after about ten feet it terminated in a steep stone staircase, 
down which even those two in the gathering smoke had to 
feel rather than see their way. They were much nearer to 
the seat of the fire than they had been before, and the 
roaring of the flames on the other side of the brick wall 
that alone intervened between it and them was terrific. 
The heat, too, was growing almost insupportable. Had 
the gaslights then gone out, which happened a few minutes 
afterwards, no human power could have saved them. At 
the end of the staircase, however, they could see the closed 
door of which they were in search ; their clasped hands 
clutched one another as they caught sight of it, but neither 
spoke. The thought which was in the mind of each was, 


6o 


THE BURNT MILLION 


“ Is it locked or unlocked ? ” There were some tools lying 
on the floor — a chisel and hammer among them — which, 
however, there would have been no time to use ; perhaps 
some one had already used them to force the door, or 
rather it was more likely they had been flung down by the 
stage workmen who knew this way of egress and had 
escaped by it. Mr. Allerton turned "the handle, and the 
door yielded to his touch. They were saved. 


CHAPTER IX. 

RE-UNITED. 

There was a wind that night which carried the smoke and 
flame from the burning hall to the opposite side of it, and 
left the court into which Mr. Allerton and his young com- 
panion now found themselves canopied by the flying 
clouds and the quiet stars. As they looked up to them 
both the old man and the girl said something, though not - 
to one another, and then the girl poured out a few broken 
words of passionate thanks to her human preserver. 

“ Tut, tut, my dear,” he answered gently, “ if it had not 
been for your wise choice and your most admirable 
behavior, we should not ” 

“ Philippa ! let us find dear Philippa and Mr. Roscoe,” 
she interrupted excitedly. 

“ To be sure,” he said, putting her arm in his, and 
hurrying on. He was not very much alarmed on their 
account as he remembered his last glimpse of them. If 
any man could make his way to the front, it was, he felt 
from what he had heard as well as seen of him, it was that 
man, but the name of course was a revelation to him. 

“ Mr. Roscoe is your brother, I suppose,” he said, con- 
scious of a certain involuntary lessening of interest in his 
young charge, of which he was nevertheless ashamed. 

“No, no; he is no relation; but he lives at home with 
us. He is papa’s secretary.” 

“ What, is your father Mr. Tremenhere ? ” 

“ Yes, I am his daughter Grace. Is it possible that you 
know him ? How grateful he will be to you ! Oh, il 
Philippa could only be safe ! What a dreadful crowd 1 
What a frightful scene 1 ” 


THE BURNT MILLION 


61 


As they turned the corner of the court, the spectacle that 
presented itself was striking indeed. A mass of people, all 
in black as it seemed, filled every inch of standing ground, 
and were only kept back from the approaches of the hall by 
mounted police. Everything above and about them was 
wet, and shone in the lurid flame that was now leaping up 
to the skies. The roar of the fire mixed with the mechan- 
ical beat of the engines which were playing on it torrents 
of water in all directions. The conflagration was not kept 
under, but it was delayed. 

“ I feel quite assured, Grace, that your sister and her 
companion are by this time in safety ; but it is impossible 
that you can either get to them or they to you. I will take 
you home, where doubtless they will have arrived before 
us.” 

“ But, dear Mr. Allerton, it feels as though we were 
deserting them.” 

It was on the lawyer’s lips to reply that they had not 
shown much scruple about deserting her, but the thought 
of the perilous state of the money-lender’s health suddenly 
occurred to him. 

“ If only for your father’s sake, my dear,” he said, “we 
ought to go home at once, and break what has happened 
to him. If the news of the Hall being on fire should reach 
him by other means, it might have serious consequences.” 

“ To be sure, it would frighten dear papa very much, 
would it not ? ” she assented. 

It was clear to her companion that she was unaware of 
her father’s state of health ; that it did not enter her mind 
that it might even frighten him to death. 

“ Even if Philippa, as you say, has not got home,” she 
continued thoughtfully, “ he will still be in great anxiety 
upon my account.” 

“ Indeed I should think he would,” returned the lawyer, 
“ for he ought to be very fond of you.” 

“Oh, but he is,” she answered eagerly, “ much fonder 
of me than I deserve. He calls me his little Fairy.” 

. “ Really ? ” 

The fact itself astonished the lawyer. Fie could not 
fancy “ Josh ” Tremenhere using a pet name even to his 
own daughter ; but when he coupled it with those remark- 
able provisions in his will, it seemed amazing in its incon- 
sistency. 


62 


THE BURNT MILLION 


“ Well, I am sure you are a good fairy,” he answered 
as lightly as he could. In spite of the presence of mind 
his companion had shown, far beyond her years, he per- 
ceived from her distracted air and the broken tones of her 
voice that she was deeply agitated, and that but for her 
sense of obligation she would probably not have replied to 
him at all. 

As they walked on together homeward, she kept glanc- 
ing back at the fire, and shook and shuddered at the appall- 
ing noise it made. It was with difficulty that they made 
their way through the crowds that were hurrying to the 
spectacle. A commissioner of police came galloping down 
the road, and stopped a mounted patrol coming at full 
speed from the other direction. 

“ The people are all out, sir,” they heard the latter say, 
in reply to some hurried question. “ There have been no 
lives lost.” 

“ You hear that, my dear,” said the lawyer, comfortingly ; 
and the answering pressure of her hand upon his arm was 
very welcome to him. The idea he was glad to think had 
not occurred to him, that since there were at least two 
persons not accounted for whom the patrol knew nothing 
about, his statement could not be very trustworthy. 

They walked on in silence, the girl, though somewhat 
consoled, still full of fears for her sister, the lawyer reflect- 
ing on the strange chance, which, despite his resolution to 
the contrary, was taking him to Lebanon Lodge. If the 
money-lender could have looked into his mind, he would 
have been well assured that the man he had made his 
executor and trustee would take an interest in one at least 
of his three charges, and would have been duly grateful for 
it. Strange to say, however, this good will was not reci- 
procated; for just in proportion to the admiration Mr. 
Allerton felt for the brave girl beside him, Mr. Allerton 
despised his client. How a man could possess such a 
daughter, and even as it would seem to some extent appre- 
ciate her, and yet set such a fancy value upon his money, 
was amazing to him. He had many clients who thought 
a great deal of their wealth, yet always in connection with 
its advantage to them or theirs ; but Joseph Tremenhere 
worshipped his wealth itself, as though it were the final 
good. 

There were lights in the drawing-room at Lebanon 


THE BURNT MILLION 


63 


Lodge, but nowhere else ; nor was there any stir about the 
house, such as there doubtless would have been had their 
absence excited alarm. It was plain to them that Philippa 
and her companion had not arrived, and at Mr. Allerton’s 
request Grace said nothing to the servant as to the reason 
of their delay. Mr. Tremenhere, he informed them, to the 
lawyer’s great relief, had already retired to rest, but Miss 
Agnes was in the drawing-room. She was of course sur- 
prised to see her sister in company with a stranger ; but 
when she heard the cause of it, her agitation and alarm 
seemed almost to deprive her of her senses. 

“ The Hall on fire ; with Philippa and Edward there ! 
and you left them ! ” and she threw a look at her sister full 
of such anger and contempt that poor Grace quailed 
beneath it. 

“ On the contrary, madam,” said Mr. Allerton, fired at 
an accusation so unjust hurled at so innocent an object, 
“ Mr. Roscoe left us. I feel very certain that he has taken 
good care of himself, and of Miss Philippa likewise.” 

“You deserted them. He is lost ! ” cried Agnes, turning 
upon the lawyer with angry vehemence ; then bursting into 
tears she threw herself into a chair and gave vent to a 
passion of tears. 

“ At all events, he has not been lost for very long,” ob- 
served Mr. Allerton drily ; he pointed to the window which 
looked into the little courtyard, where the missing couple 
could be seen emerging from a hansom. 

Agnes leapt to her feet with a little cry of joy ; then at 
once recovered her self-control. 

“ I am sorry to have spoken as I did, Mr. Allerton,” she 
exclaimed, “ but I was almost out of my mind upon my 
sister’s account.” 

“ Your apology is due, madam,” he replied, coldly, “ less 
to me than to your other sister.” 

She ran up to Grace and embraced her at once ; the best 
thing she could have done to show her penitence, and one 
which considerably mollified the lawyer. 

“ Let them make less noise below, if you please,” he 
said ; “ I happen to know that your father is far from well, 
and that all excitement has been forbidden to him.” 

He spoke with earnestness and with a certain air of 
command, which in a stranger must have seemed to require 
explanation ; but Agnes did not quest3£~ authority ; 


6 4 


THE BURNT MILLION 


she was very willing to conciliate this man, whoever he 
was, before whom she was conscious she had committed a 
great imprudence; she thought he was some doctor whom 
her father had consulted. Even, if what he said was true, 
however, it was just then comparatively of small matter to 
her ; her mind was full of more pressing things. Grace, 
on the other hand, had run downstairs at once, as much 
to hush the noise in the hall as to welcome the new-comers. 

Philippa embraced her with passionate fervor. 

“ Thank Heaven, thank Heaven ! ” she sobbed, as she 
pressed her to her bosom. An unmistakable touch of 
remorse mingled with her joyful accents. 

“ Imagine,” she murmured, “ our horror, when we 
strained our eyes in vain to see you come out of that hor- 
rible place.” 

“ I told her, however, my dear Grace, that you were in 
safe guidance,” put in Mr. Roscoe, smiling. “ If I had 
not been sure of that, we would never have left you.” 

“ It was all for the best,” said Grace, as he wrung her 
hand. She knew that her tone was colder than she wished 
it to be. She was not displeased with him for leaving her, 
but for the manner of it as regarded others. She still 
seemed to see him shouldering those poor frightened crea- 
tures to left and right ; it had been to some degree a 
revelation to her of his true character. She could never 
think of him as being “ nice,” in any sense again. 

His quick intelligence perceived the ground he had lost 
with her, but not the cause. 

“ I am afraid, Grace, you feel a grudge against me,” he 
said plaintively. “ Philippa will tell you that directly I 
had saved her I tried to go back again for you.” 

“ He did indeed, Grace,” put in Philippa earnestly, 
“ only the police would not permit it. How dreadful it 
was pushing through that shrieking crowd ; when they came 
out it was in great knots and bundles, not like human beings 
at all ; that was why we were unable to recognize you. My 
dress is torn to pieces, but yours — why you look as if 
nothing had happened to you ! ” she added, with amaze- 
ment. 

“ Mr. Allerton and I escaped by another way, quite 
alone.” 

“ There ! I told you how good a guide she had got, 
Miss Philippa,” exclaimed Mr. Roscoe, triumphantly. 


TILE BURNT MILLION. 


65 

“ You might also have said how kind a one,” said Grace, 
with tender enthusiasm. “ I owe him more than words 
can say.” 

“ I shall certainly write to-morrow to express my deep 
sense of obligation to him,” observed Mr. Roscoe. 

“ Mr. Allerton is at this moment in the house,” she an- 
swered; “he saw me home, and naturally waited here for 
your arrival. Poor Agnes has been in a dreadful state 
about you both.” 

“ No doubt,” said Mr. Roscoe, “ but more particularly, 
of course, upon your sister’s account. I think, Miss Phi- 
lippa, k would be very kind of you to go up to Miss Agnes ; 
she can hardly leave her guest alone.” 

Philippa left the room at once — they had been talking in 
one that led out of the hall — and Grace was about to follow 
her, when Mr. Roscoe stopped her. 

“ One moment, dear Miss Grace. Mr. Allerton, I sup- 
pose, knows who you all are ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; I told him, and, as you are aware, he is an 
intimate friend of dear papa.” 

“ I think you are mistaken there. They have had busi- 
ness relations with one another, but that is all.” 

“ But it is not so ; he must be very intimate with him ; 
he told me what alarms and pains me very much, that 
there is something seriously amiss with papa’s health, of 
which he has never spoken to us.” 

“ How strange S ” Mr. Roscoe’s astonishment was per- 
fectly genuine. He knew, of course, of his employer’s ail- 
ment, but that he should have confided it to Mr. Allerton, 
of all men in the world, was news indeed — and bad news. 
His mind leapt at once, if not to the right explanation of 
the matter, to a suspicion of it. He remembered that on 
the day after his seizure Mr. Tremenhere had passed the 
whole morning away from home, on some business of which 
he had never spoken. Was it possible that he had made 
his will with the apprehension of what might happen to 
him any day strong upon him, and had gone to Mr. Aller- 
ton for that purpose? The chagrin that Mr. Roscoe’s 
face exhibited as the thought crossed him was beyond even 
his powers to conceal. Grace naturally took it for sym- 
pathetic sorrow. 

“Then you, too, were unaware,” she said, “of anything 
very wrong with dear papa ? A sudden shock, Mr. Allerton 

5 


66 


THE BURNT MILLION 


said, might be serious to him. Good Heavens 1 can it be 
possible that he has heart disease ? ” 

“ 1 have never heard a whisper of such a thing, Miss 
Grace ; but a person has only to be eminent in any walk of 
life to have all sorts of stories told about him, and Mr. 
Allerton is in the way of hearing such matters. Did he 
happen, by the way, when you were alone together, to 
speak of me.” 

“ Not a word. We were too much engaged, I fear, with 
selfish thoughts to talk of anybody.” 

She said this with some embarrassment, arising from an 
unaccustomed sense of duplicity, for she well remembered 
what they had thought of Mr. Roscoe, though they had 
not spoken of him. 

“ I am glad of that,” he answered, smiling. “ Mr. Aller- 
ton and I have been antagonists — not personally, of course, 
but in business matters — and that might have prejudiced 
him against me. Henceforward, I need hardly say, I can 
never regard him save with the most heartfelt gratitude. 
Oh, Grace — for I must call you Grace, if it be but for this 
once only — never shall I forget the horror of that moment 
when I was compelled to trust your precious life to another. 
It was no question of choice, believe me.” 

“ How could it have been ? ” she put in simply. It was 
evident she had missed his meaning, which had referred to 
his taking Philippa instead of herself. The innocence of 
her tone convinced him of the stupendous error that he had 
been on the point of committing. 

“Your generous nature prompts you to say to yourself, 
‘ Necessity has no law,’ ” he continued, “but I can never 
forget that in that moment of danger and despair I turned 
my back upon you.” 

“ I don’t see how you could have done otherwise, Mr. 
Roscoe,” she replied calmly. She had almost said “ I don’t 
see, so far , how you could have done otherwise.” It was 
again not the remembrance of his desertion of her at all 
(which had seemed really a necessity), but that of his 
behavior to others, which made her tone so cold. But he 
had not the key of this, and he felt that his protestations 
had missed fire. 

“ I think you should be wishing Mr. Allerton good-bye,” 
he observed deferentially, with a little sigh. 

“ True, it is getting late. Let us go very quietly upstairs, 
so as not to risk waking dear papa.” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


67 


But when she reached the drawing-room she found, to 
her surprise, that Mr. Roscoe was not following her. She 
thought it strange, considering what had happened, that 
he should omit to make his personal acknowledgments to 
Mr. Allerton ; but perhaps his modesty suggested that they 
should more fitly come from her father. 


CHAPTER X. 

SPECULATIONS. 

Mr. Allerton, when Grace left him, as he thought, a 
little ungratefully, alone with her sister, was by no means 
pleased with his position. He was not favorably impressed 
with Miss Agnes and her late outbreak of temper, and, if 
he had followed his own inclination, would have then and 
there bade her adieu. To depart, however, in peace and 
solitude was impossible, since he would have had to run 
the gauntlet of the little party in the hall ; and, moreover, 
as he reflected — since he had accepted the trust Mr. Tre- 
menhere had pressed upon him — here was an opportunity 
of learning something of the character of one, at least, of 
the three ladies who would probably at no distant date 
become his charge. He already knew that she had. not a 
very good temper j but, on the other hand, he did not do 
her the injustice of supposing that it was a small thing 
that had put her out. The apprehension that her sister 
stood in danger of death by fire was enough to upset the 
equanimity of any woman, and to kindle her indignation 
against those whom she suspected of having failed in pro- 
viding for her safety. But, had she been actuated by this 
emotion, she would have shown a corresponding joy in 
welcoming Grace on her escape from her severe peril ; and 
this he-had noticed she had not done. She had been glad 
to see her safe and sound, of course ; but there had been 
no ecstasy of congratulation, such as he had looked for. 
She might, indeed, have cared more for the elder sister 
than her younger, but this idea the lawyer dismissed as 
impossible. In his view there could be no comparison 
between those two young women. The conclusion he 
came to was that, since Miss Agnes had shown such an 


68 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


unmistakable agitation at the thought of the peril ir 
which the missing couple stood, it must have been on 
account of Mr. Edward Roscoe. 

As a rule, he was not much given to the study of the 
human heart. It does not, as in the case of the physician, 
affect the lawyer in his professional practice, and Mr. 
Allerton was a lawyer to his finger tips. But to-night h6 
was not himself. He had just passed through an 
experience which had moved his very soul ; he had been 
brought into intimate relations with a person quite out of 
his usual experience, but in whom he felt an interest, for 
the moment, absorbing, and all connected with her seemed 
to have a claim upon it. To be on good terms with her 
eldest sister would obviously be of advantage to him in his 
future role (as he pictured it) of Grace’s friend and pro- 
tector ; and though he did not like Miss Agnes, he 
resolved to make an effort to produce a contrary impression 
on her as regarded himself. From what he knew of her 
father, and guessed of her bringing up, as well as from the 
glimpse he had caught of her masterful and passionate 
spirit, he concluded that compliments would be wasted 
upon her, or, at all events, compliments paid by him . 
He was naturally inclined to say something of the cour- 
age and good sense that had been exhibited by her sister 
in the late trying circumstances ; but he rightly judged 
that reference to some one else, who was of greater conse- 
quence to her materially, if not more loved, would be more 
likely to prove attractive. 

“ As we have these few moments together, Miss 
Tremenhere,” he said, “ I must excuse myself for having 
'unwittingly betrayed a professional secret. You have 
been all hitherto, he tells me, unaware of the state of 
your father’s health.” 

The abstracted look — for she had been listening to the 
voices in the hall — vanished from her face at once, and 
was succeeded by one of eager interest. 

“You are his medical man, I presume? ” 

“ No, madam, his confidential lawyer.” 

It was a bold stroke, and a doubtful one ; but there was 
no time to consider matters in all their bearings ; directly 
he had spoken, however, he felt that he had done well. 
He had certainly lost no ground with her by telling hei 
the truth so far ; she was all attention. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


69 


“ The imminence of the danger to which I knew your 
father would be exposed by any sudden shock,” he con- 
tinued, “ compelled me to speak out in a matter on which 
I should have been otherwise bound to silence. I trust 
that you will not take advantage of my confidence to 
reveal the fact to others.” 

“ Grace heard it,” observed Miss Agnes sententiously. 

“ Yes ; but I think I have sufficient influence with her 
to induce her to keep silence about it.” 

(She was discussing the matter at that very moment 
with Mr. Roscoe below stairs — the man of all others from 
whom the lawyer would have kept it.) 

Miss Agnes nodded, and looked unmistakably for 
more. 

“ I have told her no details ; she is impulsive and im- 
pressionable, and such things would only alarm her ; but I 
believe I am now speaking to a young lady of practical 
good sense. I may say at once that your father has heart 
disease.” 

“ Poor papa,” she said. 

If the invalid had been a lap dog, most women would 
have said “ Poor Fido ” with more feeling. It was a 
revelation, though not altogether an unexpected one, to 
the hearer. 

“Yes; I had it from his own lips, and under circum- 
stances that leave no doubt of its correctness. I would 
urge upon you, therefore, to remove from him as much as 
possible all exciting causes, without, of course, letting him 
know that you are taking such precautions.” 

u What circumstances ? ” she inquired gravely. 

For the moment the lawyer knew not what she meant. 
It seemed incredible that she could have thus ignored the 
important advice he had been giving her ; nor indeed, had 
she done so ; the simple fact was that, lost in the thoughts 
his communication had awakened, she had not heard 
him. 

“ That is a matter concerning your father’s private 
affairs,” he answered coldly. 

She nodded significantly and unabashed. If she had 
said, “ I understand ; he was making his will,” she could 
not have expressed herself more distinctly. 

“ I have often heard of ‘ a woman of business,’ ” thought 
the lawyer — and indeed he had often heard from them (or 


7o 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


rather from ladies who called themselves such), and at 
considerable length ; “ but here for the first time do I see 
one in the flesh. What a partner she’d make for some gen- 
tlemen in my profession ! ” 

Here Philippa entered the room, and the two sisters 
flew into one another’s arms, but not, he noticed, as birds 
fly, or at least love birds. If Mr. Allerton had been a 
playgoer, it would have struck him that there was a good 
deal of tC stage direction ” about it. What seemed con- 
trary to expectation, the younger sister was far the most 
effusive. 

“ Oh, Agnes ! what have I suffered since I saw you 
last ! Never, never, did I expect to see you again. But 
Mr. Allerton — oh, sir, how can we ever thank you for 
preserving our dear Grace ! — has doubtless told you all.” 

“ He has told me about Grace and himself,” she 
answered coldly ; “ but it appears you got separated from 
her.” 

“ Yes, in that dreadful turmoil. Mr. Allerton will bear 
witness that it could not be helped. What a scene it was ; 
would that I could forget it ! ” 

“ Still, while it is fresh in your memory, tell me how you 
escaped ? ” 

If Miss Philippa had been alone with her sister she 
would doubtless have told her whatever she thought pro- 
per to tell ; but in Mr. Allerton’s presence, who had wit- 
nessed the whole transaction, it was not such an easy task. 
She was far from being ashamed of having taken the only 
means that had been offered her of getting out of the 
burning hall, but the details she had her reasons for being 
unwilling to communicate. She was really unable to recall 
what words her companion had said to her in that moment 
of horror when she had almost lost her wits, but she had 
an uneasy sense that it was unfortunate they had been 
overheard ; she did remember how she had clung to him 
in that crowded passage. She could hardly say, “ Mr. 
Roscoe gave me his arm and helped me out,” in the pre- 
sence of a person who had seen how the thing was done, 
and might even have already described it. 

“ The whole affair, my dear Agnes,” she said desper- 
ately, “ is so painful and shocking to me that I must be 
excused from dwelling upon it, just at present.” 

The cold blue eyes of Miss Agnes flashed incredulously ; 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


7 * 


her thin lips curled with the promise of something extremely 
unpleasant to come, when fortunately at that very mo- 
ment Grace entered. The look of both the sisters was at 
once concentrated on the door ; they had expected some 
one else, or some one besides ; and it was obviously a 
relief to both of them that he had not come. It was also 
a relief to Mr. Allerton, who had seen quite enough of 
Mr. Edward Roscoe, and had heard too much. 

“Now I see you all three united,” said the lawyer, ris- 
ing from his chair, “ I will take my leave. You must have 
a great deal to talk about, and it is getting late.” 

Agnes offered him some refreshment but he declined it. 

“ I will not forget,” she whispered, with a grateful 
smile, as she took his hand. 

Philippa pressed his fingers, as much perhaps to 
bespeak his goodwill as to acknowledge his services, but 
said nothing. 

“If I should once begin to say what I owe you, Mr. 
Allerton, I should never have done/’ said Grace softly. 
“ Dear papa will see you, of course, to-morrow ? ” 

“ I hope so ; not that I want his thanks ; but tell 
him I shall hope to see him,” said the lawyer earnestly. 
“ Good-bye, my dear.” 

Mr. Allerton walked home that night, instead, as was 
his usual custom, of taking a cab. He was full of reflec- 
tions evoked by the events of the last few hours, and he 
gave them rein. The three sisters, and the very different 
behavior they had exhibited, interested him extremely. 
It was clear to him that their executor and trustee would 
have his work cut out for him. About Grace he had no 
apprehensions ; it would be his pleasure and privilege to 
do his best for her, and she would give him credit for 
good intentions ; but with Miss Agnes and Miss Philippa he 
foresaw there would be trouble. What was very curious, 
considering the position Mr. Roscoe evidently occupied 
in the house, his name had never been mentioned by either 
of them ; nor could this arise from want of regard for him, 
since in the case of Miss Agnes, at all events, a very par- 
ticular interest had been shown in his welfare. It was 
intelligible enough that Miss Philippa should have been 
disinclined to describe to her sister the manner of her 
escape, which, however necessitated by circumstances and 
satisfactory in its result, could scarcely be a subject fot 


72 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


pleasurable reminiscence ; but her avoidance of Mr. 
Roscoe’s name was remarkable. Since there could have 
been no secret as to his having been her companion on 
the occasion in question, why should she have been so 
reticent about him ? Perhaps she suspected that her sister 
entertained an attachment for him, and disapproved of it; 
perhaps she entertained one for him herself, and did not 
wish it to be suspected. If this was so, in either case, 
and Mr. Tremenhere had any inkling of it, the provisions 
of his will, the lawyer admitted to himself, were not so 
strange as he had thought them to be. Under such cir- 
cumstances, if that document came to be disputed, it 
struck him — and the idea evoked his grimmest smile — 
that the Court would be inclined to indorse the intentions 
of the testator. Nevertheless, it was a cruel will ; and now 
that he had come to know and like one of the three 
persons whose destinies were affected by it, it seemed to 
him more cruel than ever. As he had told Miss Grace, 
he did not want her father’s thanks, but he was not without 
hopes that the service he had rendered to his favorite 
daughter might induce the money-lender to listen to those 
remonstrances on the matter he had intended to have 
made in any case, but which had now personal feeling to 
back them as well as a sense of right. 

That Mr. Roscoe had left Grace to his protection in 
the concert hall was a source of self-congratulation, but 
that he had apparently made his choice as to which of the 
two sisters he should save, and had chosen the other, gave 
him a still keener sense of satisfaction. It was clear, at 
least, that the man had no matrimonial designs upon 
Josh’s little Fairy. Had it been otherwise, the lawyer 
almost felt that he would have defended Mr. Tremenhere’s 
will at his own expense rather than have it permitted it to 
be “ upset.” But what would become of the little Fairy 
as it was ? This thought occupied Mr. Allerton’s mind to 
an extent that would have astonished his clients, could 
they have been aware of it, exceedingly ; some of them 
would doubtless have even gone so far as to say, “ Why, 
this old fool has actually fallen in love with a young girl ! ” 
They would have done him, however, a great injustice. 
He was not even actuated by that sentimental emotion, 
not at all uncommon with gentlemen of his years in rela- 
tion to young persons of the other sex, which is termed 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


73 


(somewhat too contemptuously perhaps) philandering. 
His feelings towards Grace were not only Platonic and 
paternal, but had their root in what was best in his nature, 
without the narrowness and conventionality that clung to 
his best. Her courage, her gentleness, and her simplicity 
had carried the old lawyer’s heart, though not by storm ; 
her beauty of course had also been a powerful ally, but 
his thoughts about it were quite unselfish. Strangely 
enough, they were now vaguely traveling on the same 
road which those of Mr. Tremenhere had gone some hours 
ago, when busied with the future of his little Fairy. The 
lawyer wondered whether it was possible that a certain 
young fellow, of whom he knew a great deal, not much to 
his credit, but still had some hopes of, could be won from his 
wild ways by love and innocence ; and if so, what a chance 
there might be for him. It was probable that he had seen 
Grace, and if so, it was certain that she must have had 
attractions for him. There would be enormous obstacles, 
of course, but there would also be immense advantages in 
such a union. There were reasons why a man of Mr. 
Allerton’s principles should not have dreamt of such a 
contingency ; as one indeed with a genuine respect and 
admiration for the young lady in question, it seemed 
almost incredible that he should do so ; and to do him 
justice, but for those hopes of amendment in the young 
fellow he had in his mind, and which he perhaps uncon- 
sciously exaggerated, he would have regarded such a 
scheme with scorn. 

But Mr. Allerton, as we have said, was a lawyer to his 
finger tips, and the idea of re-establishing a great estate, 
and refurbishing a noble name from which not a little of 
the guilt had been rubbed off, had an attraction for him, 
such as few laymen can understand. In the case sup- 
posed, however, which was (indirectly) that of a client of 
his own, it would be necessary to drive a coach and horses 
through the will of another client, which was of course 
utterly out of the question — a reflection that brought him 
round to the point from which his speculations had started, 
that he must persuade Mr. Joseph Tremenhere to alter his 
will. 


74 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


CHAPTER XI. 

AN UNEXPECTED CLIENT. 

One of the great charms of romance to my mind is its 
opportunism. The novelist’s characters do not live 
actually longer than people in real life ; there are very few 
centenarians in our love tales ; but they die just when 
they ought to do ; generally all in a lump (with the excep- 
tion of the hero and heroine and the very good people) at 
the end of the third volume. 

What is the good of describing an individual with great 
accuracy and considerable detail if he is to be cast off in 
an early chapter? This is one of the reasons why the 
realms of fiction are so much more pleasant to dwell in 
than the real world, where those whom the gods — and 
ourselves — love die young. Unhappily, our present story 
is very far from a romance, being about what ordinary 
folks call money, and the more excellent persons who 
despise it, Mammon. We are therefore obliged to take 
people in it as we find them, and occasionally to take them 
away. Charles the Second excused himself to his weep- 
ing Court because he was “ such an unconscionable time 
in dying,” but the narrator of a story of real life seems 
to owe an apology to his readers for killing off his 
characters too soon. 

On the very morning after the events narrated in the 
previous chapter a letter arrived for Mr. Allerton by hand 
at his private address, for he had not yet left his house, to 
inform him that “Josh ” was dead. The letter was writ- 
ten by Mr. Roscoe, and ran thus : — 

“ My dEAR Sir, — It is with the utmost sorrow that I have 
to inform you that your late client, Mr. Joseph Tremen- 
here, died suddenly last night, or rather this morning, 
within a few hours of your having quitted his house. 

Yours truly, 

“ Edward Roscoe.” 


“ Bearer waits. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


75 


The note was very brief, and, on that account, in the 
lawyer’s eyes, very significant. The news it brought 
shocked him more than — a week ago — he would have con- 
ceived it possible for it to have done. Of course he did 
not like the money-lender, and even now could almost have 
said he was better out of the world than in it. But he felt 
no inclination to say anything of the kind. His last rela- 
tions with him had been friendly, and somehow, though 
he had most seriously differed from him even in that inter- 
view, he seemed to have gathered from it that there was at 
least more good in the man than he had ever suspected. 
He had been a man of his word, and was so far trust- 
worthy ; he had shown himself open to reason, and not 
utterly deaf to conscience ; it was possible — the lawyer 
with unconscious charity even represented to himself that 
it was probable — that if he had lived he would have taken 
a larger and a better view of his responsibilities. It was 
too late for that now, of course ; too late, alas ! for every- 
thing ; but the reflection softened the lawyer’s heart 
towards him, or rather towards his memory. At once, too, 
the same thought occurred to him (though it evoked in his 
case no smile of satire) which had occurred to the dead 
man when he last left the lawyer’s door. What would 
become of that team of thoroughbreds which the money- 
lender had held so well in hand, now that death had dragged 
him from the box seat ? What would become of Lord 
Cheribert for one, now that he had lost that guiding hand 
which, if it had never kept him straight, had restrained 
him with bit and curb from leaping into the gulf of ruin ? 
Lord Morelia, his father, indeed, was of opinion that 
“ Josh ” had put his head to it, and urged him thither with 
rein and whip, but Mr. Allerton knew better. There were 
many worse hands into which the young man might have 
fallen, and now probably would fall. 

For the present, however, the catastrophe that had hap- 
pened to Josh himself loomed most largely in the lawyer’s 
mind. It is the privilege of death to oust for the moment 
all other considerations ; all other objects of interest are 
dwarfed in its tremendous presence ; and the old lawyer, 
even while speculating about the consequences of the event, 
was held in thrall by the event itself. Mr. Tremenhere’s 
death, however sudden, was not of course a thing to be 
wondered at, for he had foretold it with his own lips. 


7 6 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


“ I shall have no death-bed,” he had said, “ I shall die 
suddenly ; very likely in the street.” 

Nor would it have been surprising if he had heard on the 
previous night of the fire in the concert hall, and been 
made anxious for the safety of his children, he should have 
fallen a victim to mental excitement ? But he had known 
nothing of this till all apprehension was over, and his 
family had been warned to break to him what had hap- 
pened with the utmost care. It was doubtless some men- 
tal shock that killed him ; but what shock ? He had died 
that morning it seemed, but very early, “ within a few 
hours,” wrote Mr. Roscoe, “of your quitting the house.” 
That must have been about two or three o’clock. Was it 
possible that, in spite of the necessity for precaution of 
which they had been informed, any of his family could 
have awakened him and told their news ? Though brevity 
might have been looked for in Mr. Roscoe’s note, it 
seemed to the lawyer brief without being concise. And 
then there was the phrase “ your late client,” which ap- 
peared wholly unnecessary. He had only had one trans- 
action with the money-lender in his life (though, indeed, it 
was a most important one) as regarded his private affairs, 
and he felt quite certain that Mr. Tremenhere had not 
spoken of it to his underling. It must, therefore, have 
been Miss Agnes that had done so ; a strange thing under 
the circumstances in itself, to be talking “ during the small 
hours,” when there was a so much more enthralling theme 
to discuss, about business affairs ; but that Mr. Roscoe 
should have alluded to it was still more strange. Mr. 
Allerton’s best explanation of it was that the information 
given him by Miss Agnes seemed of such prodigious im- 
portance to Mr. Roscoe that he couldn’t get it out of his 
mind, even when announcing the catastrophe. It would 
have seemed reasonable enough that the dead man should 
have been described as his client if Mr. Allerton’s presence 
had been requested at Lebanon Lodge, since some relation 
between Mr. Tremenhere and himself must have been 
taken for granted for the invitation to be given. But no 
such request had been made. On the other hand, some- 
thing was evidently expected of him by the phrase “ Bearer 
waits.” What that meant seemed to be, “ you may come 
or not as you please.” Had Roscoe written the note of 
his own head, he wondered, or had the “ little Fairy,” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


77 


with the recollection of his kindness to her still vivid, 
asked him to do so ? That it was Roscoe’s composition 
was certain. “ What the fellow wants/’ was the lawyer’s 
conclusion, “ is to lie low, and to make me show my 
hand.” 

In order to show as little as possible to begin with, he 
gave a verbal reply to the messenger to the effect that he 
would be at Lebanon Lodge in one hour, and took a cab 
to his office, which was on the way. The dead can always 
wait, and not to look in at his place of business was an 
unnecessary act of abnegation ; but it was not of business 
that the lawyer thought as he sat in his hansom. He 
thought of an innocent girl with tender eyes and gentle 
looks, who, after her first burst of sorrow was over, would 
be dependent upon him in what would perhaps be very 
difficult circumstances for advice and succor, and he made 
up his mind that they should not be wanting. 

His chief clerk opened the door of his office to him ; he 
had been waiting to do it for the last ten minutes. “ You 
have heard the news, sir, I suppose ? ” he said respect- 
fully. 

Mr. Allerton nodded gravely, much to the other’s dis- 
gust ; no one likes the wind — even though it be an ill 
wind — to be taken out of his sails. He had, however, a 
second sheet in his locker, which “ told ” even beyond his 
expectations. 

“ Lord Cheribert, sir, is waiting for you.” 

“ Indeed ! ” The lawyer was more than astonished ; 
the visit was most unexpected, for he had always been 
upon the side of Lord Morelia, and adverse (though, of 
course, for his own good) to his heir-apparent ; but there 
was an association of ideas in his mind besides, which 
made what was now told him more astounding still. 

He walked into his private room with rapid steps. 
Lord Cherebert rose from the chair on which he had been 
sitting, and trankly held out his hand ; his manner was 
friendly and even cordial, but it had none of its usual 
elasticity. 

“ Poor old Josh is dead, Allerton,” he said simply. 

So I have heard, my lord.” 

N Don’t milord me, I beg ; let us have none of that rub- 
bish. You have no grudge against me. I know, and I want 

k to*be friends.” 


7 * 


THE BURNT MILLION 


“ I was always your friend, Lord Cheribert ” 

“ I ask you again to drop that jargon,” interrupted the 
young fellow. “Why, I can remember when you used to 
call me Cherry.” 

“ So can I,” sighed Mr. Allerton ; nor was it so very 
long since he had done so. The picture of the charming 
child, in his Vandyke suit of velvet, hand-in-hand with the 
sweet lady whose only quarrel with death was that it 
parted her from her darling boy, recurred to him. If she 
had lived to lead the lad by love, and soften his father’s 
ways towards him, his future might have been different ; 
but, as it was, it was well that she could not foresee it. 
There was a look of her still in his eyes when they were 
at rest, and in his winning smile, the smile General St. 
Gatien used to say was the only winning thing about young 
Cheribert, for whatever he put his money on he was sure 
to lose it. No one of his rank — for the fortunes of vulgar 
millionaires melt away on the turf more quickly than those 
of the well-born, probably because they have more people 
to look after them — had ever got through so much money 
so early and in such a little time. Nor was the way in 
which he had got through it by any means respectable ; in 
the lawyer’s view, with that streak of puritanism running 
through his respectable nature, it was disgraceful and even 
something more. Yet he could not help liking the young 
fellow. The expression of his face was always attractive, 
but just now it had a certain tender seriousness which Mr. 
Allerton had never seen in it before. 

“I must confess the thing has knocked me all of a 
heap,” said the young lord, apologetically. “ Old Josh was 
a better fellow than you think, Mr. Allerton, and very kind 
to me. Yes, you may laugh ” — the other had smiled ever 
so slightly — “ but it was so. Of course, he made his pile 
out of me ; so would any man who had the plucking of 
such a well-feathered bird ; but there are different ways of 
doing it. I have sometimes thought that he really liked 
me — treated me tenderly, as the angler says of his worm. 
At all events, if you please, I don’t want to have a word 
said against him,” he added impetuously. 

“ I am not going to say a word against him, Cheribert,” 
said the lawyer softly. “What you have said is his best 
epitaph, and I have nothing to add to it, except this — that 
I agree with you.” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


79 


‘ And yet you have always told me that he was such a 
blackguard ! ” 

“ If I have, I retract it. We often say things, as we do 
things, which we are afterwards sorry for. No man is 
wise at all times — nor yet a fool.” 

“ You cunning old fellow,” continued Lord Cheribert, 
admiringly. “ So you are making things easy for me, are 
you ? Well, it is better than making things hard. It is a 
pity the governor has never seen that.” 

“ Your father has always loved you, Cheribert.” 

“ Then he has a deuced disagreeable way of showing it,” 
was the quick reply. “ A man should know how to put 
his foot down without treading on another man’s toe ; 
when it’s his own flesh and blood, too, he should be more 
careful.” 

“ He has been very injudicious, Cheribert, as I have 
often told him. Men should make allowance for one 
another.” 

“ And a good one when they can afford it,” interrupted 
the other, laughing. 

The lawyer was pleased to see him laugh ; he had guessed 
the young man’s errand, or the nature of it, and it filled 
him with joyful hopes ; the bird had come back to the cage 
of its own accord, but he was not inside it ; an ill-selected 
word, even a gesture, might, he well knew, frighten it away, 
and probably for ever. Seed and sugar, sugar and seed, 
were what were wanting, and not the coin of reproach. 

“You and your father are of very different natures, 
Cheribert ; and if, as you say, he has not made allowance 
for you, perhaps you, too, have judged him harshly.” 

“ The strictest sect of the Pharisees,” observed the young 
man grimly. 

“ Quite so ; that is how you have judged him ; it is a 
mistake.’ 

“ It is a mistake that is shared by a great many people. 
I hate such cant.” 

“No doubt; still, in that very chair where you are now 
sitting, I have seen him sit, with his grey head bowed down, 
and I have heard him say, ‘ My son, my son, my dear, 
unhappy son !’ That was not cant.” 

There was a long silence. Once the young man assayed 
to speak, and stopped ; there was something in the tone of 
his voice which his pride forbade him to let the other hear. 


So 


THE BURNT MILLION, 


“Well, I could not come to him , of course, Allerton, 
but I have come to you. You have always been friendly 
to me, and ready to listen to reason, or what I call 
reason,” he added with a humorous pathos. “ I don’t want 
him to suppose that I am crying Pax , as we used to say at 
school, because I am beaten. I could carry on a long time 
yet without being reduced to husks, like the other pro- 
digal.” 

“ If you were so reduced, you would not come to him at 
all,” observed Mr. Allerton quietly. 

“That’s true,” continued the young man eagerly ; “I’d 
starve first. You understand me, Allerton, as he never 
did. I’m glad I came. I don’t mean to say that I would 
have done it if poor old Josh had been in the land of the 
living. But his death — so sudden you know, and all that — 
it’s sobered me. I have never wished the governor to die, 
I swear to Heaven I never did.” 

“ I am quite sure, Cheribert, that you never did.” 

“ Thank you. And yet he might die any day, you know, 
and never see me first. I can’t go into the thing — you and 
he could talk for an hour about it, but it’s not in my way 
— but that’s at the bottom of it. That first ; and then, 
now that Josh is gone, and supposing things go on in the 
old way, I must go quicker down the hill, and in worse 
company. Roscoe has often hinted he could do as well 
for me as his master ; but he can’t, and the very proposal 
showed he was a most infernal scoundrel.” 

“ There are also corroborative circumstances to that 
effect,” observed Mr. Allerton, drily. 

“ I daresay ; he told me, however,” said the young lord 
smiling, “ that I was never to believe anything you said 
about him.” 

“ I daresay,” said the lawyer, smiling in his turn. He 
felt that his new client and he were getting on famously. 

“ Well, the long and short of it is, Allerton, that I pro- 
pose to put my whole affairs — so much as I know about 
them, that is, which isn’t much — into your hands. They 
are in a precious tangle, but perhaps it may be worth your 
while — nay, I won’t say that — but, perhaps, for the sake 
of Auld Lang Syne ” 

“ Not another word, Cherry,” said the old lawyer 
tremulously ; and the two men shook hands together as 
they had not done for many a day. 


TM£ BURNT MILLION \ 


8x 


CHAPTER XII. 

MYSTERIES. 

" May I tell your father of this most welcome visit of 
yours?” inquired Mr. Allerton, after a long pause. 

“ Yes. Indeed I took it for granted that you’d tell 

him/ 

“You are my client, remember, now,” said the lawyer, 
smiling. There was a little duplicity in the good man’s 
reply, since he would most certainly have told Lord 
Morelia in any case, but it is probable that the Recording 
Angel blotted it out in his usual way, or even set it down 
to the credit side of the lawyer’s account. It was so 
necessary to inspire confidence in the newly-caged bird, 
who had to be kept as well as caught. 

“ True. I am glad to hear you talk like that, for there 
are little items in my affairs which it is just as well should 
go no further than yourself.” 

“ I can imagine that that is just possible,” said the 
lawyer gravely. “ Be sure that I shall use a judicious 
reticence concerning them, even to your father. What you 
have done to-day will, I am sure, rejoice him exceedingly. 
But, Cheribert, there is a great deal more to be done to 
effect a complete reconciliation.” 

“ Promises of amendment, and all that ; well, I suppose 
so.” The young man’s brow was clouding over. 

“ Promises of amendment from your lips, Cheribert, 
would be amendment,” said the lawyer kindly, “ like poor 
‘Josh/ as you call him, you have always kept your word, 
I am sorry to say.” 

Lord Cheribert smiled his sunniest smile. Here is a 
man, he said to himself, who is a lawyer and a Puritan, 
and yet has some fun in him. “ Well, yes. I told the 
governor I should go to the devil, and I did it ; as to any 
promise about going the other way, that must depend upon 
circumstances.” 

“ You know your father’s conditions.” 

6 


82' 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


“ Some of them. He seemed to me to be an anti-every- 
ihing man. I must give up whist, and tobacco, and wine, 
and promiscuous dancing ; and, if I wanted to ride, to take 
to the tricycle. ,, 

“ Indeed, Cheribert, he was not so unreasonable. What- 
ever he proposed, remember he had b.een very sorely tried. 
If you will let me meditate, I do think matters may be 
arranged. There is one thing, however, which is indis- 
pensable.” 

“/know,” said Lord Cheribert with a gloomy nod, “ I 
must give up the turf. No more strings of horses at New- 
market. No more pretty litle books upon the Derby. 
Well, I am prepared for that.” 

“ I am delighted indeed to hear it,” exclaimed the lawyer 
warmly. “And of course there will be no more riding 
steeplechases.” 

“No more after the Everdale. I must ride there, how- 
ever ; some friends of mine have a pot of money on me. 
The race has been postponed on account of the duke’s 
death, and it will be the last of the season, and, if this 
matter goes well with me, the last I shall ever ride.” 

“ But if money can settle it — even a pot of money as you 
call it — I am sure your father would prefer to pay it, and 
shake hands with you at once.” 

Lord Cheribert shook his head and smiled. “ My dear 
Allerton, there are some things, believe me, which don’t 
admit of compromise, at least beforehand. Moreover, I 
have promised a man to ride this race. After that, if my 
father is willing to say ‘ let by-gones be by-gones,’ well 
and good, I will come and stay awhile at the old home, 
otherwise I have promised myself some fishing at Hals- 
water.” 

“At Halswater ! That is in Cumberland, is it not?” 
inquired the lawyer after a little pause. 

“Yes, in the Lake District. I have never been there,” 
observed the young man with an earnestness of assertion 
which seemed unnecessary. 

“ I seem to remember having heard that Mr. Tremen- 
here had a house at Halswater ; is that so ? ” 

“ I believe he had,” returned the other indifferently. 
“ Poor Josh was not very communicative about his own 
affairs.” 

“ And I suppose you were never on terms of intimacy 
with his family.” 


THE BURNT MILLION S3 

“ Certainly not. I was once, however, introduced to his 
daughters.” 

“ So was I,” said Mr. Allerton ; “ one of them I thought 
a very charming girl.” 

“That was Grace — at least I think it must have been,” 
added the young man dubiously. “ She is the youngest. 
How came you to know anything about them ? ” 

“ I will tell you about it another time, for it’s rather a 
long story, Cheribert. I am Mr. Tremenhere’s executor, 
and am likely to see a good deal of them.’ 

“ Mr. Tremenhere’s executor ? You ? ” 

“Yes. I didn’t like the post, you maybe sure, but I do 
not now regret my acceptance of it ; it may simplify the 
settlement of your own affairs. The story, as I have said, 
is a long one, and also very strange. But I have no time 
to speak of it now. When I looked in at the office this 
morning it was on my way to Lebanon Lodge.” 

“ Then you will see the poor girl.” 

“ All three of them perhaps ; but the summons came 
from Mr. Roscoe.” 

“ Pray say something kind from me, Allerton, *’ said the 
young man earnestly. “ I really liked poor old Josh, you 
know ; and of course I cannot call myself just yet.” 

The pressure of the young man’s hand at parting seemed 
to the lawyer to speak of something more than reconcilia- 
tion ; it seemed to say, “ I know you will say the best you 
can of me to Grace.” It was very unlike Mr. Allerton to 
jump at conclusions, but his mind, as we know, had been 
busy with this matter before, although but speculatively ; 
the news of Lord Cheribert’s intention to visit Halswater 
struck him as very significant ; and still more that slip of 
the tongue when the young man had spoken of the poor 
“ girl ” instead of the poor “ girls.” That the little Fairy 
should have attracted him was nothing wonderful. Yet, 
after all, what could come of it, with that will lying in the 
office safe yonder, and the Dead Hand? 

Mr. Allerton had much more to think about for the rest 
of the way to Lebanon Lodge, than he had had at start- 
ing- 

The great house gazing on the street with its many sight- 
less eyes was a ghastly object ; all about it was silence and 
gloom ; when he rang the bell he heard the tinkle of it, 
though it was so far away, as though it had been on the 


8 4 


THE BURNT MILLION 


other side of the door. It was opened, after a long delay, 
by a young footman, pale and dishevelled, and looking as 
if he had been frightened by the sound. 

“ Can I see Mr. Roscoe ? ” inquired the lawyer. 

The man did not know ; he would go upstairs and see : 
master was dead. 

Mr. Allerton bowed his head in token that he knew that 
much. The footman hesitated, apparently as to whether 
the visitor should be left in the hall, and then pushed back 
a half-opened door. Perhaps the gentleman would wait 
there a minute or two, he said, and left him. It was the 
same room, used chiefly by Mr. Roscoe, where Grace had 
met him and her sister on the previous night. As Mr. 
Allerton entered it, a voice half choked with tears exclaim- 
ed, “ I have killed him ; it is I who killed him.” It came 
from a sofa hidden in shadow. Then, as he stood speech- 
less with surprise and horror, another voice, though still 
the same lips, a fierce yet frightened voice, “ How dare 
you come in here? Who are you? ” At the same time 
the speaker sprang from the sofa, and he found himself 
face to face with Philippa Tremenhere. Her eyes, stream- 
ing with tears, stared wildly at him ; her cheeks were white ; 
she trembled in every limb. 

“ I am Mr. Allerton,” he answered gently. “ The ser- 
vant showed me in here. Forgive me for intruding on 
your sorrow.” 

“ Nay, forgive me, sir,” she answered earnestly. “ My 
sorrow has almost driven me mad. I did not recognize 
you. It was kind of you to come.” She took his hand and 
pressed it. In her case, too, as in Lord Cheribert’s, he 
felt that there was more than gratitude : a pitiful appeal to 
him for silence. He had heard something he should not 
have heard. He was about to leave the room, but she 
detained him. “Sit down,” she said; “your presence 
does not distress me. Do not leave me.” 

He sat down by her side, his hand still clasped in hers. 

“ You know what has happened ? ” she continued. 

“ I do, indeed. It must have been a terrible shock to 
you, for you were not prepared for it as I was.” 

“ That is true,” she answered eagerly ; “ you warned us 
of his danger, did you not? but it seemed too dreadful to 
he true. We were careful, too. There was no noise. 
We all thought my poor father was asleep. We meant to 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


*5 


break to him what had happened in the morning. And 

somehow, as Mr. Roscoe and I ■” here she burst into a 

passion of tears and covered her face with her hands. 

“You must not talk about it, Miss Philippa,” said the 
lawyer gently. “ I shall hear all that needs to be told from 
others — here is Mr. Roscoe himself.” 

That gentleman had, indeed, entered the room so noise- 
lessly that neither of them had perceived his approach; 
he stood, white as a ghost, but with keen, steadfast face, 
looking from one to the other searchingly. 

“ Miss Philippa has been telling you how it happened, 
I conclude,” he said ; “ it is a pity, for she is not in a fit 
state to speak of it.” 

“ So I perceive, and, indeed, was saying so, as you came 
in,” said the lawyer. “ Would it not be better for her to 
be with her sisters ? ” he added in lower tones. 

Mr. Roscoe shrugged his shoulders. “ That was my 
advice to her from the first ; but there is no authority, of 
course, in the house now. You hear what Mr. Allerton 
says, Miss Philippa ? ” 

She shook her head, still keeping her hands before her 
face. Mr. Roscoe beckoned the lawyer into a room on 
the other side of the hall, and closed the door. 

“The poor girl is demented with her grief,” he said. 
“ You must pay no attention to what she has been saying 
about her father.” 

“She has been saying nothing ; you came in as she was 
beginning to tell me the sad story. What was it ? ” 

“ Simply this. The young ladies and myself sat up 
some time together after you left the house last night, talk- 
ing of what had happened at the concert hall. I wished 
them good-night, and went into yonder parlor — which is 
my business-room — to write some letters. About two 
o’clock I went upstairs ; as I passed by Mr. Tremenhere’s 
door, treading very softly, he came out. I own it startled 
me very much. He looked very agitated and excited. 
‘ What had happened ? ’ he said. ‘ I can see by your 
face that something has happened, and is being kept 
from me.’ Then he uttered a sharp cry of pain and fell 
down at my feet — dead. The whole thing did not take 
one minute.” 

“ Then he had not evei} heard of the fire ? ” 

“ Not one word,” 


86 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


“ How strange ! ” The tale seemed strange, indeed ; 
for it did away with the explanation which the lawyer 
had already made in his own mind for that amazing 
exclamation of Philippa, evidently intended for Mr. 
Roscoe’s ears : “ I have killed him ; it is I who have 
killed him.” He had set this down to a too tender feeling 
of remorse on her part ; since, if she had not been at the 
concert, she would not have been at the fire, the report of 
which catastrophe — as he had taken for granted — had 
killed Mr. Tremenhere ; but now, it seemed, he had not 
been told of its occurrence. 

“ You were quite alone, then ? ” continued the lawyer. 

“ Quite alone ; every one else had long retired. It was 
a most ghastly situation, as you may imagine.” 

Mr. Allerton inclined his head. This man said he was 
alone, but Philippa had begun her narration “as Mr. 
Roscoe and I,” which did not dovetail with this state- 
ment. 

The whole affair was certainly very strange. There 
ensued a little pause, during which the two men regarded 
one another thoughtfully. But they were not thinking 
about the same things. Mr. Roscoe looked upon his late 
explanation as final; there appeared to him no reason for 
further question. His mind was fixed no longer upon the 
recent catastrophe, but on its consequences. 

“ I suppose I am right in concluding, Mr. Allerton — as 
indeed I took for granted in the note I ventured to write to 
you — that I am addressing Mr. Tremenhere’s legal adviser, 
perhaps, even, his representative ? ” 

“Yes ; I am executor under his will.” 

“ Indeed.” Though the other had suspected this, his 
countenance fell. 

“ He could not have chosen a better, a more upright 
man. At the same time you will forgive me for feeling a 
little disappointment. He and I have been so long con- 
nected together. He knew me so well.” 

The lawyer could hardly restrain a flicker of the lip ; the 
retort, “ that was the very reason why he did not choose 
you for his executor,” suggested itself so very naturally. 

“ I may assure you, Mr. Roscoe,” he answered drily, 
“ though the information is a little premature, that you 
have no reason to be disappointed with Mr. Tremenhere’s 
will.” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


s 7 

“ Oh, I was not thinking of that , Mr. Allerton. It is 
pleasant, of course, to hear that one has been remembered, 
as the phrase goes, by an old friend ; but I should have 
preferred a proof — though a less material one — of the 
confidence he always reposed in me.” 

This was too much for the lawyer. It seemed to him 
that his intelligence was being trifled with, and he resented 
it. 

“ I don’t know what you call remembered, Mr. Roscoe, 
Perhaps you are thinking of a mourning ring. Mr. Tre- 
menhere has left you a very large legacy. He said some- 
thing about your having saved his life.” 

Here occurred a very remarkable circumstance. The 
blood rushed into Mr. Roscoe’s cheeks in a crimson 
flood. 

“ I don’t expect to be believed,” the old lawyer used 
to say in narrating the fact, “and unfortunately there 
was no witness, but I do assure you the fellow blushed.” 
There was a good reason for it, though the lawyer never 
found it out ; but he felt that there was a reason, and it 
puzzled him more than anything that had gone before. 

“ Here is Mr. Tremenhere’s cheque-book and his bank- 
er’s account,” said Mr. Roscoe, producing them; “here 
are the keys ” 

“ Never mind the keys,” said the lawyer, motioning 
them away ; “ give them to Miss Tremenhere. How is 
she, by-the-bye, and Miss Grace?” 

“ They are both utterly overwhelmed and prostrated by 
their calamity,” returned Mr. Roscoe, “ just as you saw 
poor Miss Philippa to be.” 

There was a knock at the door, and the butler entered. 
He addressed himself to Mr. Allerton. “ Miss Grace’s 
regards, sir, and if you will kindly see her for a few min- 
utes before you leave the house, she will be obliged to 
you.” 


88 


THE BURNT MILLION \ 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE BEREAVED. 

This message of the butler’s, though inconsistent with 
the information just imparted by Mr. Roscoe, did not 
embarrass that gentleman in the least. He had already, 
though involuntarily, shown not a little weakness, and 
doubtless repented of it; he was not likely to make the 
same mistake again. 

“ You are honored indeed, Mr. Allerton,” he observed 
smiling. “ When I saw Miss Grace myself an hour or so 
ago, she seemed unequal to an interview with anyone ; 
but she and you have had an experience together such as 
may well make a friend of a stranger.” 

The lawyer nodded stiffly. This reference to the fire at 
the concert-room, considering how the speaker had con- 
ducted himself on the occasion in question, struck him as 
rather impudent, and the more so, since he was convinced 
that it was the consciousness of his ill-behavior which had 
caused the man to avoid him after their escape. Without 
making any reply, he followed the butler to the drawing- 
room. 

It was an immense apartment, looking much larger by 
day-light than it had done the previous night, and made 
the “ little Fairy ” (nobody’s little Fairy now, alas ! ) 
perched on a huge sofa at the far end of it, more childlike 
to behold than ever. Yet as she rose to meet him he saw 
that grief had already aged her. A few tears rose to her 
eyes, but the passion of sorrow, such as he had seen in 
Philippa, had passed away, and like a mountain torrent 
after “ spate,” left its marks upon the unaccustomed 
road. 

“ How kind and good of you to come,” she murmured. 

“ Nay, my child, it is kind of you to wish to see me,” 
he answered gently. 

“ How could I help it, since you were his friend? ” she 
said with mournful tenderness. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


89 


Her mistake was more touching, in the lawyer’s view, 
than any oiher thing which filial love could have prompted 
her to say. She was in ignorance, it was clear, not only 
of his own relations with the dead man, but doubtless of 
much else concerning that father who, whatever had been 
his faults, had dearly loved his child ; and however difficult 
might be the task, Mr. Allerton made up his mind that, as 
regarded them, his lips at least should be kept sealed, 
whatever she might hear of them from others. 

“ I want you to talk to me a little about him,” she 
continued plaintively ; “ it is the only comfort left to me, 
and yet they tell me it is better not to do so.” 

“ Who tells you that ? ” 

“Mr. Roscoe.” 

The advice, as he could not but feel, was good ; the less 
said about poor “ Josh ” the better, was what he would 
have observed himself, had he been asked his opinion ; 
and especially would he have said it, had it been possible, 
to this poor girl, for whom the revelation of the truth 
would open the floodgates of undreamt of shame. 

“ Mr. Roscoe is right, my child,” said the lawyer gently. 
“ It is wrong to melt the heart which is already as wax in 
the fire by speaking of our grief to others ; with those who 
like yourself belonged to him — with your sisters —it is of 
course but natural that you should speak of your father, 
but ” 

“ I cannot speak of him to them,” she interrupted sadly. 

“ Why not ? Are they not kind to you ? ” 

“Yes ; they are kind enough,” she sighed. “ But Phi- 
lippa, I don’t know what has come to Philippa ; she shuts 
herself away from us ; and Agnes — Agnes, though she does 
not mean it, seems a little hard. What is the use of cry- 
ing ? she says. And indeed it is no use ; but dear papa 
— who loved me so much better than I deserved — is gone, 
and I am all alone.” 

It was clear that she was so, but why she was so it was 
difficult to explain. In the case of such a domestic 
catastrophe as had just occurred it seemed only natural 
that the chief sufferers — the dead man’s daughters — should 
have found comfort in the interchange of their common 
woe ; how strange it seemed that, on the contrary, they 
should thus shrink from one another ! How hard, espe- 
cially, that this one, so much younger than the other two, 


90 


THE BURNT MILLION 


should be left alone with her misery, without a word of 
sympathy, as it would appear, from either of them ! Per- 
haps they were jealous of her, and resented the place she 
had held in her father’s affections, and felt themselves no 
great sorrow for what had happened. Yet Philippa was 
plunged in sorrow, and, indeed, in something which looked 
even deeper than sorrow — remorse. Could it be the con- 
sciousness of having behaved undutifully to the dead man 
that had caused her to express herself in such strange 
terms ? But if she was penitent on that account, the most 
natural and obvious way of showing it would surely have 
been to do all she could to comfort the sister who had been 
so dear to him. There was a mystery about the whole 
matter which Mr. Allerton could not fathom. His 
attempts at consolation were necessarily made at hap- 
hazard, and of the conventional type. 

“ What you ought to ask yourself, my dear,” he said 
tenderly, “ since you are left to your own judgment, is, 
what sort of behavior, if your poor father could see you, 
would please him most ? It is natural that you should 
bewail your loss, but he would not wish his ‘ little Fairy,’ 
I am sure, to weep her eyes away.” 

“ Is there anything he would like me to do ? ” she in- 
quired eagerly ; “ anyone to benefit, as he was always so 
ready to do? But then he was so wise and powerful, and 
I am so foolish and helpless.” 

“ I don’t think you foolish, my dear,” said the lawyer ; 
“ and you certainly are not helpless. Your father has 
taken good care of that.” 

“ Do you mean money?” she cried. “ What’s the use 
of money when one has lost all one loves in the world ? ” 

There was an indignation in her tone that seemed 
uncalled for. They have been talking to her already' — 
some of them — about money, was the lawyer’s conclusion. 
How could it have been otherwise in this Temple of 
Mammon ? 

“ The use of money, my child, is to do good to others.” 

“ True ; as he did ; I should have remembered that,” 
she answered gently. “There will be many to lament him, 
though not as I do. They know about it, do you think, 
poor people ? ” 

The notion of Mr. Joseph Tremenhere’s loss being 
looked upon by a large mass of mankind as that of a 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


9i 


public benefactor was a travesty of the truth, such as under 
any other circumstances would have provoked the lawyer’s 
grimmest smile. He smiled even as it was, though far 
from grimly. 

“ I know one who does,” he answered ; “ he called on 
me this morning to express his sorrow, and bade me offer 
to you and your sisters, should I have the opportunity, 
his heartfelt sympathy.” 

“ Who was it ? Let me know his name,” she answered 
eagerly. 

“ It was Lord Cheribert.” 

“ How good of him ! ” she exclaimed gratefully. “ I 
know papa used to like him. In his case, too, it could not, 
of course, have been the mere sense of obligation. It 
must have been because he knew how kind and good dear 
papa was.” 

“ He had as high an opinion of your father as any man 
I know,” said the lawyer. He could say that much with 
perfect truth ; but such interrogations, if pursued, would, 
he felt, become embarrassing in the extreme. “ I must 
leave you now, my dear, and I hope in a less despairing 
state of mind. You know where we should all look for 
comfort when sorrow overwhelms us.” 

The last reminder was rather a difficulty with Mr. Aller- 
ton. To a Christian girl he would have known better 
what to say ; but his “ views ” were narrow. He had not 
much sympathy with Jews, except for the converted ones, 
for whom he subscribed liberally. 

“ This is my address, in case you should wish to send 
for me. You will not be sorry to hear, I hope, that your 
father has appointed me, until you come of age, your 
guardian.” 

“ That is good news indeed,” she cried, and a grateful 
smile for the first time lighted up her tear-dimmed face. 
“ How thoughtful it was of him to leave me in such kind 
hands ! ” 

She little imagined that the idea had entered her father’s 
mind only a few days ago, and doubtless thought it the 
result of a lifelong friendship born of mutual esteem ; but 
this ingenuous simplicity was a better passport to the law- 
yer’s heart than the keenest wit could have devised. 

An honest lawyer is quite as much attracted by sim- 
plicity as a roguish one, though for very different reasons. 


92 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


As Mr. Allerton left the room, a. portiere on one side of 
the drawing-room landing was noiselessly drawn aside, 
and Miss Agnes, with one finger on her straight shut lips, 
beckoned him up a side step into a little room which was 
her boudoir. Her face was pale and anxious ; it seemed 
to speak of apprehension of calamity rather than of sorrow 
for its occurrence ; her still blue eyes were cold and tear- 
less, but full of expression, of questioning. Her hand 
closed on that of the visitor, and retained it, till she had 
led him to a seat, as though he had been a blind man. 

“ One word with you before you go, Mr. Allerton. I 
wish to know from you, u/ho, I understand, can tell me, 
am I the mistress of this house or not?” 

It was a strange question to be put by a woman, far 
short of middle age, whose father, dead but a few hours, 
was lying under the same roof, and whose sudden fate, as 
one might have well imagined, should have driven all 
other matters out of her mind. For the moment the law- 
yer thought that her wits had deserted her, the more so 
since her voice was new to him ; hoarse, though she spoke 
in a low key, and tremulous either with fear or passion. As 
he looked at her, however, he abandoned that theory. Her 
face was sane enough, and, though disturbed by present 
emotion, expressed resolve. 

“ It is a somewhat unexpected question, madam,” he 
answered coldly. If there was one thing the lawyer hated, 
it was a “ hard ” woman, and for the moment he forgot 
how important it was — and especially for Grace’s sake — 
to keep friends with Miss Agnes. 

“ No doubt,” she answered, not brusquely, but with an 
air of conviction. “ I am obliged to risk your thinking ill 
of me, Mr. Allerton ; under the circumstances you may 
well feel surprised at such an inquiry ; but I am most un- 
fortunately placed, and you are the only person to whom I 
can appeal for instruction. I ask again, now that my poor 
father is dead, am I not mistress here ? ” 

“ Undoubtedly you are. You are his eldest daughter. 
His authority, in domestic affairs, naturally reverts to you.” 

“ And otherwise? I mean legally.” 

“ What does she mean ! ” thought the lawyer to himself. 
“ Is it possible she wants to know whether the house is 
left to her? — I am afraid I do not quite understand you, 
Miss Agnes.” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


93 


“ And it is so difficult to explain myself,” she answered 
confusedly. “ Of course I am speaking to you in con- 
fidence, Mr. Allerton ; but have I any legal jurisdiction 
over my sisters ? ” 

“ None whatever. Miss Philippa is of age, I believe ; 
and the guardianship of Miss Grace has been placed in 
other hands — to be frank with you, in my own.” 

“ I am sincerely pleased to hear it,” she answered, and 
she looked pleased. “ She will be less exposed to injurious 
influences ; not, however, that they could have done her 
much harm, I believe, in any case ; she has such an honest 
and straightforward nature.” 

The lawyer nodded adhesion ; the speaker’s words, 
however, seemed somehow less to praise Grace than to 
imply dispraise of some one else, who was not so honest 
and straightforward. Her next sentence, as he thought, 
gave him the key to the preceding one. “With regard to 
other persons, not my sisters, in the house, I conclude I 
have the same authority as my father had. No one, for 
example, could stay here without my leave.” 

“No one, my dear madam, you will forgive me for 
saying,” replied the lawyer gravely, “ ought to be now 
staying in the house (who is not a servant) whether with 
your leave or without it. If he has any sense of propriety, 
however, that will doubtless strike himself.” 

“ If you refer to Mr. Roscoe, Mr. Allerton,” she 
answered coldly, but with a tremor in her voice and a fire 
in her eye that belied the indifference of her tone, “ I would 
have you to know that there is no man who has a more 
delicate sense of what is becoming ; what is amiss with 
him, if anything, is, on the contrary, an excess of gentleness 
which renders him too charitable and lenient to the faults 
of others.” 

“ Even an excess of gentleness may lead a man into 
error,” remarked the lawyer drily. 

“ Quite true,” she answered eagerly, “ and aggravate the 
very evil which it is his object to do away with. What 
you have said about Mr. Roscoe’s staying here is no doubt 
conventionally correct. We shall all miss him, however, 
very much.” 

It was strange indeed, thought the lawyer, that Miss 
Agnes should thus talk of missing anyone, and yet not have 
had a word to say about her father. At that very moment, 
however, she remedied the omission. 


94 


THE BURNT MILLION 


“ I suppose, Mr. Allerton, there will be no necessity for 
an inquest ? ” 

“ I think not ; the doctor whom your father consulted 
will of course be at once communicated with, and will 
notify the cause of death.” 

“That is some comfort,” said Miss Agnes, with a sigh of 
relief. “ Of course I should like to talk to you about many 
things, Mr. Allerton,” she continued wistfully, “ but this 
is hardly the proper time.” 

“ I think that had better be postponed for the present,” 
he answered. 

“ I suppose so,” she replied, but in by no means an 
approving tone. “ Whenever you think proper, I shall be 
pleased to see you. A thousand thanks — take care of the 
step — good-bye.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

GOOD ADVICE. 

It has been stated by a physician of experience that more 
persons are put out of the world without discovery in that 
square mile of which Belgrave Square is the centre than 
elsewhere in all England, the inhabitants of that region 
being peculiarly liable to temptation to that crime, from 
the system of primogeniture and other causes, and also too 
highly-placed to be troubled by the vulgar interference of 
a coroner’s inquest. It should be some compensation to 
middle-class people living, for example, at Kensington, to 
reflect that they cannot be cut off prematurely by their 
nearest relatives without some stir being made about it ; 
and it may be taken for granted, since there was no inquest 
upon the body of Mr. Tremenhere, that that gentleman 
needed none. It was understood, and very properly so, 
since nothing could be urged to the contrary, that he died 
of heart complaint, as the eminent doctor whom he had 
consulted had expected him to do. But though there was 
no debate as to the cause of his death there was talk 
enough about the deceased himself, and many an attractive 
“par.” he made for the newspapers. It was not every- 
body, it appeared, who had known him that knew “ Josh ” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


95 


was a Hebrew, till his burial in the Jewish cemetery at 
Kensal Green put that matter beyond question. He had 
certainly not been ostentatious in professing the faith of 
his fathers, and no one except Mr. Allerton had any idea 
what a stickler he had been for it. 

In the meantime, of course, his wealth was trebled. If 
you laid it down in sovereigns, as one ingenious reporter 
alleged, it would have reached from the Land’s End to 
John o’ Groat’s ; another, not to be outdone, added, 
“ edgeways.” Perpendicularly in a pile, it would, very 
nearly, have touched the moon. These calculations, so 
obviously exaggerated, and also differing so materially 
from one another, nevertheless delighted the public. They 
would stand in knots opposite the red brick house shading 
their eyes with their hands, and point out to one another 
the room — the curtained one with the window open — 
where the dead man lay with the lonely “ watcher ” by his 
side, guarding, after the manner of his race, what needed 
no longer custody. 

No departed greatness, whether of genius or virtue, could 
have excited one-tenth of the interest that hung round the 
dead master of millions ; but whither his millions had 
gone interested them vastly more than his own destination 
— which by most, indeed, was taken for granted. “ His 
worst he kept, his best he gave,” could have been justly 
said of him, if not quite in the sense intended by the poet. 
Poor Josh ! His name, like Caesar’s, a week ago could 
have stood against the world — or, more prosaically, had 
been “good” for anything; and now it was a by-word. 
Songs were made upon it, as Falstaff threatened to make 
upon his adversary, and sung in the streets, to popular 
airs ; ignoble thoughts wedded to transitory melodies. 
Mr. Edward Roscoe, who had left Lebanon Lodge, and 
whom business made peripatetic, would sometimes involun- 
tarily listen to them in quiet streets, not knowing whether 
to smile or to frown. 

How could he know till the will had been read ? There 
were so many things to be considered before he could look 
at the memory of his deceased friend in the proper light. 
Personally, he had disliked him exceedingly, and of late 
much more than ever ; but he was not a man to be 
influenced by prejudice of that kind. He took much 
broader views. He knew from Mr. Allerton that Josh had 


9 6 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


left him what the lawyer evidently considered to be a large 
sum, but he might not be a good judge of size in that 
respect; Mr. Allerton disliked him — Mr. Roscoe looked 
matters of this kind in the face — and would have grudged 
him his legacy, whatever it was. Still, it was doubtless a 
considerable sum, for Josh had been liberal, and even 
lavish on some occasions ; and this had been given him, 
as the lawyer had told him, for saving his life — unbuttoning 
his shirt-collar and giving him brandy on a certain 
momentous occasion. 

This was a matter which Mr. Roscoe did not look in the 
face ; for particular reasons of his own, the contemplation 
of it was exceedingly distasteful to him. He kept his 
thoughts as much as possible fixed on the legacy itself. If 
it was really large, that, of course, would be so far satis- 
factory ; but, on the other hand, its very size was, from 
another point of view, to be deprecated. It might have 
been left to him, not out of gratitude alone, but as a species 
of compensation for the extinction of certain hopes which 
Mr. Tremenhere had, he knew, suspected him of enter- 
taining. “ Here is your money,” the testator seemed to 
be saying to him ; “ more than you expected, and ten 
times more than you deserved ; but I have taken care that 
you get nothing more out of me or of my family ; your 
connection with them henceforth ceases, and is at an end 
forever.” 

Mr. Roscoe not only possessed a keen intelligence, but 
a knowledge which is falsely reported to be extremely rare 
— he knew himself, and even saw himself to some extent 
as others saw him : and he saw himself pretty much as 
Josh had seen him. This naturally gave him great uneasi- 
ness. He had long ago taken such measures as were 
possible to him to make him independent of the opinion 
of his deceased friend ; but strong, nay, extreme, measures 
as they had been, would they now prove sufficient ? This 
was the question he was constantly putting to himself 
during these days of doubt. 

He would have given a hundred pounds for one glimpse 
of Mr. Joseph Tremenhere’s will (and if he could have 
read it, he would have given all he had in the world — 
including his legacy — to have burnt it) ; but there was 
nothing for it but patience. In the handsome lodgings he 
had taken for himself near his late employer’s residences 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


97 


where he was treated with great consideration — for if he 
was not the rose, the dead millionaire himself, he had been 
near the rose, and was supposed to possess the very secret 
which he yearned to learn— he passed anxious hours, 
sleepless nights. He had been playing for high stakes ; he 
had a strong hand, and had played it with admirable 
dexterity, but he was by no means sure how the game had 
gone. 

As to whither Mr. Joseph Tremenhere had gone, that 
inquiry never so much as occurred to him. It interested 
him not in the least, which, considering the intimate rela- 
tions that had so long existed between the two men, seems 
strange. And yet, how little thought do most of us give 
to the condition of those who have left us for ever, how- 
ever close have been the ties that bound us to them when 
they were on earth ; less, upon the whole, than if they 
had undertaken a long journey upon this planet, and con- 
cerning whom, leaning on our garden “ spud ” in the 
summer weather, we wonder how they are getting on in 
New York or Melbourne. What Mr. Roscoe thought of 
was not Mr. Tremenhere but Mr. Tremenhere’s money ; 
and, with one exception, everybody else was thinking, 
though not with so interested an anxiety, just as Mr. 
Roscoe did. 

Even the great and good Lord Morelia, though he pro- 
fessed some apprehensions for the sinner who had been so 
suddenly summoned by that messenger who brooks no 
delay, was much more apprehensive respecting his family 
property, a large amount of which had without doubt 
stuck to the dead man’s hands, and helped to swell that 
fortune in five figures which was attracting the admiration 
of the public. Mr. Allerton’s temporary interest in poor 
Josh had utterly died away, and was transferred to his 
property — a matter which occupied a good deal of his 
attention : notwithstanding its size, it was not unwieldy ; 
it was, indeed, remarkably free from complications of any 
kind ; it was the will itself that worried him. In his heart 
of hearts the lawyer felt that it was not only, as he had told 
his client, an unjust and improper will, but in point of 
law a doubtful one ; nay, one which he would not have 
hesitated, if any other man had drawn it up, to call a bad 
will. It was liable to dispute, and on the face of it sug- 
gested dispute because of its manifest injustice. If his 


9 S 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


client had lived, Mr. Allerton was convinced, or flattered 
himself so, that he could have persuaded him to alter or 
tone down what was amiss in it. Even now, it was possi- 
ble, should matters turn out favorably, if the legatees should 
prove amenable to reason, and not be got at by interested 
parties, that they themselves might eventually get things 
arranged to their satisfaction ; but if there should be oppo- 
sition at first, and an antagonistic spirit, not only might 
the will be set aside, but, what was much more to be 
deplored, all the safeguards by which poor Josh had 
hoped to protect his property from fortune-hunters and 
adventurers would be swept away. 

Now, though Mr. Allerton disproved of the will, he 
approved, though within less narrow limits, of the safe- 
guards ; the “ intention of the testator ” was sacred to 
him ; and, as so often happens in the case of the pious 
founder, the lawyer’s object was to carry out the wishes 
of his client, while at the same time avoiding the evils 
which a hard and fast adhesion to them would infallibly 
bring about. If the three heiresses (if they could be called 
so) would allow themselves to be ruled by him, all might 
still go well, he hoped ; but if they were restive, or incited 
to antagonism by others, he foresaw trouble. He knew 
nothing of the influences that were at work with them, 
save one ; and that he profoundly distrusted. His rock 
ahead, for the present at least, he well perceived, was Mr. 
Edward Roscoe. That that gentleman was on intimate 
terms with the family was evident ; Miss Philippa had 
shown in his presence a total absence of self-restraint ; 
Miss Agnes had expressed her confidence in him, and 
strongly, almost passionately, resented that doubt of his 
delicacy of feeling which the lawyer had ventured to hint. 
That he was a designing scoundrel Mr. Allerton was 
assured — his character with respect to other matters for- 
bade him to entertain a more charitable opinion : concilia- 
tion, he felt, would be utterlythrown away upon him ; it 
would only, as it does in the mind of every scoundrel, 
suggest that he was an object of fear. But to show his 
distrust of him would be even more dangerous ; upon the 
whole, he concluded it would be best to treat him with 
apparent confidence. He was certainly a friend of the 
family, and, as it seemed, their only friend ; next to him- 
self it was reasonable that they should look upon him as 


THE BURNT MILLION 


99 


their adviser in matters of business. Mr. Allerton decided, 
therefore, to do him the compliment of asking him to hear 
the will read. He was not without hope that, from the 
manner in which Mr. Roscoe should listen to its provisions 
he might gather his views on the matter, or even some 
hint of his future intentions. At all events, it would give 
that gentleman no material advantage. In a few weeks, at 
furthest, even if he did not receive the information at once 
from the ladies, which was almost certain to happen, he 
could read it all for a shilling at Doctors’ Commons. 
Upon the whole, it seemed better to treat him as a friend. 
He therefore wrote to Mr. Roscoe, stating his intention 
to read the will to the three sisters, on a certain day, and 
inviting him, as an old and valued friend of the family, to 
be present at that ceremony. 

The day appointed was not, as usual, that of the 
funeral out of regard for the ladies, who, he thought, 
would be too “ upset ” to attend to matters of business, 
but the day afterwards ; a decision which he afterwards 
regretted. One at least out of the three objects of his 
solicitude was not so dvercome by grief as not to be 
anxious (though not, perhaps, from mere mercenary 
motives) to know how her future had been arranged for 
her, and the delay was not favorable to Mr. Allerton’s 
views. She inquired the reason of it of Mr. Roscoe, and 
that gentleman shrugged his shoulders. “ To wink with 
both our eyes,” the poet tells us, “ is easier than to think ; 
but to wink with one of them has an effect upon the 
observer equal, if not superior, in significance to speech 
itself ; and a shrug of the shoulders is near akin to it.” 
Mr. Roscoe’s shrug spoke volumes. 

“ I suppose we may take it for granted,” observed Agnes 
— for it was she who was the questioner — “ that Mr. 
Allerton is an honest man ? ” 

The two were alone, so that it was doubtful whether the 
word “we ” referred to herself and her sisters, or to herself 
and her companion ; he took it in the former sense, how- 
ever. 

u Well, Allerton is a lawyer,” he answered, smiling ; 
“ but, honest or not, he can do nothing, one way or the 
other, as regards the disposition of your property ; he can 
only be guided by the will. As to this delay, I think it 
very probable that he wishes by it to impress upon you the 


100 


THE BURNT MILLION 


idea of his possessing a power which in fact he does not 
possess. He was your father’s legal adviser — unfortunate- 
ly or not it is impossible at present to say — but he is not 
yours. You are under no obligation to seek his counsel, 
or to take it if offered. You must be guided by circum- 
stances.” 

“ You mean as to our attitude to Mr. Allerton?” she 
answered quickly. 

Again her speech was equivocal: he had said “you,” 
but she had said “ our ” where “ my ” would have seemed 
more appropriate ; on the other hand, the word might have 
been used fitly enough in reference to herself and her sis- 
ters, and again he took it in that sense. 

“ Well, of course,” he answered curtly. “ It is very in- 
convenient for those in your position to be on bad terms 
with those in his ; if it be possible, live peaceably with 
all men, is a precept to be especially followed in the case 
of one’s trustees. If you take my advice, you will be very 
civil to Allerton. Whatever may be the information it is 
his duty to impart to you to-morrow, receive it with as 
little emotion as possible, however distasteful it may be to 
you.” 

“ Distasteful ! What do you mean, Edward ? ” 

There was alarm in her tone, and something more ; the 
vehemence of her feelings had even, no doubt unconscious- 
ly, caused her to address him by his Christian name. He 
took no advantage of that circumstance (which some per- 
sons — Mr. Allerton, for example — would have put down 
as an unexpected item to his credit) to adopt a more fami- 
liar tone. On the contrary, his manner was scrupulously 
grave and judicial. It was evident, however, that he was 
putting some restraint upon himself ; and this was not un- 
welcome to her — she felt that it was being done for her 
sake. 

“ I mean nothing,” he said. “ I have no cause even to 
suspect anything. But others may have suspected some- 
thing.” 

“ What ! my father? ” she answered with a catch in her 
voice, as if some one had caught her by the throat. 

“ For heaven’s sake, command yourself,” he exclaimed 
authoritatively, almost harshly. “Yes, it is possible that 
your father may have been too solicitous for what he fool- 
ishly imagined was your welfare, or jealous of another’s 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


101 


influence over you. For all we know, there may be 
restrictions.” 

“ Restrictions ? I don’t understand you,” she murmured 
hoarsely. 

“ Why should you ? It will be time enough to talk of 
such things — and how to evade them — when we learn of 
their existence ; I only wished to put you on your guard. 
What ever happens to-morrow, keep a good heart, show a 
firm face. There may be nothing the matter. You think 
I am cruel, but I am only cruel to be kind, Agnes.” 

He dropped the word, as it seemed, after a little hesita- 
tion. 

“ You call me by my name, as if you were ashamed of 
it,” she cried with sudden vehemence. Her face assumed, 
a color which was not becoming ; her blue eyes glittered 
with passion. 

“ Great heaven, what a task is mine ! ” exclaimed Mr. 
Roscoe bitterly. “ Can you not understand that it is not 
shame but fear that makes me prudent ? You have some 
suspicion of me in your mind, I know : what is it ? ” 

“ I have none, or if I had it is gone,” she answered hur- 
riedly. “ Forgive me, Edward.” 

“ I have nothing to forgive,” he said, in his gentlest tone } 
“ but if you wish to please me, lay to heart what I have 
said about to-morrow.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

AN ENIGMA. 

Mr. Allerton was not without his apprehensions as he 
went up the stairs with the will in his pocket to the draw- 
ing-room of Lebanon Lodge. He was used, of course, to 
“ public readings ” of a similar kind ; but this was an 
exceptional occasion. He was used also to lady clients ; 
and though tender-hearted, and of a gallant disposition, he 
much preferred those of the sterner sex. Ladies are more 
difficult to manage in matters of business than men. They 
are more ignorant but more opinionated ; more liable to be 
deceived, yet more suspicious without cause. 

In the present case what it was his duty to communicate 


102 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


he was well aware would not be agreeable. The three 
ladies were all left very well ; they were immensely rich, 
but there were very*severe conditions in restraint of mar- 
riage. There were, indeed, what are termed “ gifts over ” 
to compensate for forfeiture in this respect — ten thousand 
pounds apiece was to be given to each upon her marriage, 
let her marry whom she might — but the rest of her money 
was left away from her unless her husband should be of 
the Hebrew persuasion. Moreover, this was left to the 
other sisters should they remain spinsters or be married to 
Jews. What was especially objectionable in the arrange- 
ment was, that it had been dictated, as Mr. Allerton very 
well knew, and the legatees must needs know still better, 
by no conscientious motive whatever, but for the purpose 
ofkeeping the testator’s property intact, or in as few hands 
as possible. It was no tribute to Religion but to Mammon. 
No wonder, therefore, that the lawyer said to himself, 
“ How will they take it ? ” as he took his seat at the gilt 
and gorgeous table, so ludicrously inappropriate to his 
present use, and produced the all-important document. 
His audience he found already seated : Grace on the sofa, 
nearest to him, with Philippa’s arm encircling her waist — 
as it struck him, in rather a stagey manner ; Agnes on a 
chair apart, and Mr. Roscoe opposite them, on the other 
side of the room. The blinds were almost as closely drawn 
as though the house still held its departed dead, and it did 
not escape the lawyer’s notice that the friend of the family 
had modestly placed himself where the gloom was deepest. 
The faces of all were pale, and, with the exception of that 
of Grace, wore an ill-concealed air of anxiety. She had, as 
it afterwards appeared, expressed a wish that her presence 
might be spared ; but this had been somewhat sharply 
overruled. She was old enough to understand what was 
to take place, she was told, and to suggest that her grief 
was too overwhelming to admit of her attending to her fu- 
ture interests was an affectation, and even a reflection upon 
her sisters. Philippa had volunteered to sit by her and 
comfort her ; *nd she carried out her premise to the letter ; 
every now and then she caressed her tenderly — even piti- 
fully, as though she felt for her rather than for herself — 
when certain passages of the will were read, and concen- 
trated her attention upon her almost exclusively. Grace 
did not return these endearments, but kept her quiet face 


THE BURNT MILLION 


103 


fixed on Mr. Allerton. Agnes, too, regarded the lawyer 
with earnest solicitude, though at times she glanced furtive- 
ly at Mr. Roscoe, who maintained an unmoved demeanor, 
with his chin resting on his hand. 

A grim smile, however, curved his lip when Mr. Allerton 
read out the few words of exordium in which Joseph Tre- 
menhere expressed his unalterable attachment to the faith 
of his fathers ; perhaps he already guessed what was 
coming. Agnes looked serenely contemptuous, Philippa 
amazed, and even in Grace’s face sat a wondering though 
tender surprise. Then came the restrictive clauses. Not 
a word was said, but they evidently produced a profound 
effect. Mr. Roscoe frowned and smiled — a combination 
which is seldom becoming, and it gave him a very ugly 
look. One must not say that a lady looks ugly, but Agnes 
in fact surpassed him in her expression of scornful disap- 
proval ; she even uttered an ejaculation of mingled disap- 
pointment and defiance. Philippa hid her face, which had 
become as pale as death, on Grace’s shoulder ; Grace alone 
remained unmoved ; she seemed to listen to the bald and 
technical terms in which her father restricted the area of 
her matrimonial choice without understanding their mean- 
ing. The sense of them afterwards recurred to her, but 
she was, in fact, thinking of something else — not of the will 
but of the testator. Once, when her name was mentioned 
preceded by an affectionate epithet, the only one in the brief 
testament, the tears stole down her cheeks. The silence, 
though on the whole it was welcome to the reader, who 
certainly expected “sensation” rather than “applause,” 
oppressed the lawyer himself. It was almost a relief to 
him when, near the conclusion of the document, where it 
set forth on certain contingencies the whole of the testa- 
tor’s enormous wealth was to revert to Robert Vernon, Mr. 
Roscoe inquired in his gentlest accents : 

“ Pray, sir, who is he ? ” 

“ Ah, who, indeed ? ” added Agnes bitterly. 

Mr. Allerton gave the desired information, so far as he 
was possessed of it, and then concluded his task. 

“ It is an infamy ! ” observed Agnes, by way of com- 
mentary. 

Mr. Roscoe lifted his finger ; and though it was plain 
she had plenty to say, she said no more. Philippa kept 
her eyes upon the carpet and was dumb. Grace drew a 
deep breath of relief, because the business, for which she 


io4 


THE BURNT MILLION 


had had no taste, was over. The silence, broken only by 
the sounds in the street without, was embarrassing. 

“ I have now performed my mission, ladies,” said Mr. 
Allerton : “ if I can be of service in explaining any detail, 
pray command me.” 

“The whole matter seems to me to require explana- 
tion, ” said Agnes fiercely ; and again Mr. Roscoe lifted his 
finger. 

“ Whatever may be thought of your father’s distribution 
of his property — a subject which I must be excused from 
discussing,” observed the lawyer, “ the income which he 
places at the disposal of every one of you — in the case of 
those who are of age at their absolute disposal — is enor- 
mous ; unless certain conditions are complied with, it is, 
indeed, but a life interest, but it is a fortune in itself. I 
have no control over it, but I hope the wish he has here 
expressed, that you will come to me for guidance and 
counsel, will not be disregarded ; at all events my best 
advice will be always at your service.” 

“ You are most kind,” murmured Grace gratefully. 

“ As far as you are concerned, however, you are in my 
power, young lady, for some years to come,” observed the 
lawyer, smiling. “ If you had been listening to me, as you 
ought to have done, you would have understood that I was 
your guardian.” 

“ I am very glad that it is so,” she returned, with an 
answering smile. 

Upon Mr. Roscoe’s face the lawyer noticed there was 
the reverse of a smile. Was it possible he had flattered 
himself that Josh would have put him in loco parentis to 
his little Fairy? When his own legacy of 5.000/. had been 
mentioned, Mr. Roscoe had inclined his head as if in 
acknowledgment of that benefaction, but he had exhibited 
no emotion. His gratitude, if it existed, had been perhaps 
swallowed up by the disappointment that the will had 
caused his lady friends. That he sympathized with 
them, it was evident, though he had given no utterance to 
that emotion. His face was grave and dissatisfied, though 
not more so than if, moved by such a feeling, it might have 
been expected to be ; but to Mr. Allerton, who did not for 
a moment credit him with anything of the kind, he seemed 
to be putting no little restraint upon himself, while at the 
same time he recommended patience and resignation to 
others. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


105 

As it seemed evident that no question was to be put to 
him, Mr. Allerton took his leave of the ladies, and was 
accompanied downstairs by Mr. Roscoe. As the lawyer 
reached the hall, “ One word,” said that gentleman, and led 
the way into his own room and closed the door. 

“ You have observed that it was not your intention, Mr. 
Allerton, to discuss with those ladies the document it has 
been your duty to read to them ; but I hope that remark 
does not apply to others, who are in a better position, 
perhaps, to judge of the matter — myself, for instance? ” 

The speaker’s tone was quiet, and his manner studiously 
respectful ; but there was a tremor in his voice that belied 
them both. 

“ I am aware that I have no locus standi , in a legal 
sense,” he went on hurriedly ; “ but I have some influence 
with your clients, and they will naturally look to me for an 
explanation.” 

“ Mr. Tremenhere’s will explains itself, Mr. Roscoe,” 
replied the other coldly. “ You can scarcely expect a man 
in my position to give you his opinion on its merits.” 

“ Certainly not ; there can, however, be only one opinion 
on the matter. You heard what Miss Agnes said ; she 
called it an infamy ! ” 

“ I was very sorry to hear such an observation from her 
lips.” 

“ So was I ; I endeavored, as perhaps you observed, to 
restrain her ; but you must admit that there was great 
provocation. The whole thing is preposterous. Such a 
will cannot hold water for a moment.” 

Mr. Allerton smiled mechanically ; no lawyer could have 
helped it. The idea of a thing not being defensible in law 
because it was “ preposterous ” — and not “ for a moment,” 
too, — tickled him in spite of himself. 

“ I am not speaking on my own account, remember, Mr. 
Allerton,” the other continued, with a sort of earnest indif- 
ference difficult to fathom ; the affair is nothing to me. 
So far as I am concerned, as you justly hinted the other 
day, Mr. Tremenhere has “ remembered me,” as the phrase 
goes, very handsomely ; but there are two ladies in whom 
I naturally feel some interest, and who will expect me to 
manifest it, placed in a most unfortunate position. They 
are both of a marriageable age.” 

Mr. Allerton inclined his head. What was said of the 


io6 


THE BURNT MILLION, 


elder sisters was certainly quite true — they had emerged 
from childhood. Miss Agnes, in particular, was by no 
means a chicken. 

“ I wonder,” thought Mr. Allerton, “ which of them this 
man has elected to marry ! He would marry both of them 
— or at least their fortunes — if he could. At heart — if he 
had a heart — he is a mormon. Of that I am convinced.” 

“Well, these restraints upon their affections, whether 
they have set them on any particular object or not, must 
be most galling. I do not wish to speak upon the religious 
matter, because Mr. Tremenhere was your client. But 
his daughters, I am quite sure, do not sympathize with the 
idea their father professed to have in view at all. They 
are Jewesses only in name — that is the simple fact.” 

“ The majority of us are fortunately Christians only in 
name,” put in Mr. Allerton drily. 

“ No ; the cases are not parallel. We wish, at least, to 
be thought Christians ; these ladies do not wish to be 
thought Jewesses. I am speaking to you confidentially, of 
course, but I am speaking the truth. Under such circum- 
stances, it is clear, these restraints must be set aside. You 
are concerned for the welfare of your clients, I am assured. 
Can there not be a friendly suit ? ” 

“ How can that be, when there are others who have a 
contingent interest in the matter — Mr. Vernon and his 
heirs ? ” 

“ The man is dead and has none — that is my belief.” 

“ That would simplify matters of course ; but Mr. 
Tremenhere certainly did not believe him to be dead 
three weeks ago.” 

“ Even so, there could be a compromise. The parties 
could all be brought into court together.” 

“ A very difficult operation indeed, believe me.” 

“ Still not an impossible one ; since you have drawn 
the will you must appear to stand by it, of course ; but 
you. are a man of honor and good feeling, and you must 
see its injustice. Do you mean to tell me, if Miss Grace, 
for instance, should marry without regard to these limita- 
tions, that you would not do your best for her? ” 

“ That is scarcely a fair question,” answered the lawyer 
gravely, almost sternly. He could hardly prevent the dis- 
favor with which he regarded his interlocutor from appear- 
ing in his voice. He did not like to hear him speak of 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


107 


Grace, and especially in connection with such a subject. 
It seemed a sacrilege. Was this man only putting a sup- 
posititious case to him, he wondered, or was he hinting at 
some scheme of his own ? 

“ I would certainly do all I could to secure the happi- 
ness of Miss Grace,” continued Mr. Allerton, “ but that 
would be very little. It would be for the Court of Chan- 
cery to act in such a matter. They would have the will 
before them, and also the eligibility of the husband she 
had chosen. If you ask my private opinion, the latter 
consideration would, I think, weigh with a judge almost as 
much as the former.” 

It was not an answer shot at a venture ; the speaker had 
aimed it with a particular object, and he saw that it had 
gone home. On Mr. Roscoe’s impassive countenance there 
stole a cloud, not of disappointment, for he had probably 
expected some such reply, but of something very like 
despair ; it was not merely the corroboration of a fear, but 
the look of a suitor who hears a final judgment given 
against him. It struck Mr. Allerton very much, for he 
saw no sufficient reason for it. Here was a man full of 
audacity and resource apparently overwhelmed by the 
mere expression of his private opinion ; or, if it was even 
the statement of a fact, one that must surely have already 
occurred to him, if he had thought upon the subject ; and 
who could doubt that he had ? 

“ No doubt you are right,” said Mr. Roscoe after a long 
pause. “ Thank you. I will tell the ladies how the mat- 
ter stands.” And so they parted. 

Mr. Allerton felt that he had discharged an unpleasant 
duty in a manner even less satisfactory than he had 
expected ; had his news been received with even more 
antagonism he would have preferred it, if only those he 
had had to deal with had shown a little more of their hand. 
The difficulty of the situation lay at present in its obscur- 
ity ; the only thing he felt sure of was that in Mr. Roscoe 
he would find the key to it. But Mr. Roscoe himself was 
an enigma to him. 

“ My impression is,” said the lawyer to himself with a 
grim smile as he walked homeward, “ that that man will 
annoy Lord Morelia more than he has ever done yet, by 
decreasing our scanty success in the conversion of the 
Jews ; he will embrace the Hebrew persuasion himself, 
which will count for two on a division,” 


lo3 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


CHAPTER XVI, 

THE KEY OE IT. 

As days rolled on Mr. Allerton was surprised, and perhaps 
as a lawyer a little disappointed, that Mr. Roscoe, or rather 
those over whom that gentleman had evidently so great a 
sway, gave him no trouble. That remark of his that the 
will would not hold water showed that he was conscious 
of its weakness, and any advice that he might have taken 
on the subject would probably have corroborated hi? 
opinion. If opposition was intended, there seemed no 
necessity for delay ; but at present there was no sign ol 
opposition. Mr. Allerton had seen the ladies more than 
once, and they had fallen in with all his arrangements a? 
regarded business matters ; no allusion to the will had 
been made at all. Miss Agnes had taken matters almost 
entirely on her own shoulders ; “ whatever suits my sister 
will suit me,” Philippa had meekly said ; but she had no* 
looked meek. It struck the lawyer that they were not on 
good terms with one another, but had buried the hatchet 
while he was with them, as in the presence of a common 
enemy. And yet they did not treat him as an enemy, 
Agnes even sought his advice, and put various business- 
like and pertinent questions to him, the source of which 
he was at no loss to discover. The two sisters were 
obviously acting under instructions. As to Grace, matters 
were very different. In the disposition of the vast income 
which Mr. Allerton held in trust for her she at first not 
only took no interest, but the whole subject appeared to 
be distasteful to her. 

“ Do not let us talk of money,” she exclaimed pleadingly. 

“ But it is necessary,” he remonstrated, then added 
gaily : “you will come to take the same interest in it — or 
in the spending of it at least — I do assure you, as in 
shopping.” 

But there was no answering smile, 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


I09 


“ To me, dear Mr. Allerton, money has been a curse.” 

“ What ! already ! ” 

“ Yes, it has altered everybody about me for the worse ; 
so changed them, indeed, that they are scarcely recogniz- 
able. Agnes talks, and, alas ! I believe, thinks of nothing 
else. Poor papa is forgotten.” 

“ My dear child, you must not think that,” said the 
lawyer caressingly ; “ you are too sensitive. Moreover, 
you must remember that your sisters were not to him what 
you were, nor he to them. You only were i his little 
Fairy.’ ” 

“ I know, I know,” she sobbed ; “ he loved me so ; but 
he loved Agnes too, and Philippa. And to hear them 
speak of him as they do ! ” 

“ Surely not to you ? ” put in the lawyer indignantly. 

“ No, not to me. I am spared that. But to one 
another.” 

“ Perhaps there is some evil counsellor who sets them 
against him, who persuades ” 

“ No,” she interrupted quickly ; “ to do Mr. Roscoe 
justice, that is not so. Pie restrains, and even reproves 
them. They are not so bitter as they were, I think, 
thanks to him.” 

“ That is so far well. You are right to do him justice, 
as we should do to all. You must remember, Grace, that 
not only did your father make a favorite of you, which 
was not judicious — though I cannot blame him, for I have 
fallen into the same error — but that the conditions under 
which he has bequeathed his property affects them to their 
disadvantage, which (at present at all events) is not your 
case. You must not be hard on them because they seem 
hard on him. I have seen so much of this. ‘ The evil 
which men do lives after them : the good is oft interred 
with their bones.’ ” 

“ No, no,” she cried ; “ his good is here,” and she touched 
her bosom. 

“ Yes ; his memory is kept green in your faithful little 
heart,” he answered approvingly. “ Still, as I have said, 
we must be just. Your sisters have some cause for com- 
plaint — this is the fact. That feeling, however, will wear 
off. Things will settle down. You are going to the river- 
side, I hear, for a few days, and afterwards to Cumber- 
land. That will be good for all of you ? but it will prevent 


no 


THE BURNT MILLION, 


my seeing you perhaps for a long time to come. It is my 
duty to inform you how you are situated as regards your 
affairs. I hold in trust for you a very large income ; but 
my hands are free. You will not want a tenth of it. The 
rest will accumulate — save what you wish to spend on any 
object dear to you. You have some cause at heart, 
perhaps, to benefit ; some good purpose to serve.” 

“ To do some good ! That would be a pleasure indeed ! ” 
she exclaimed ; “ I have never done any good. I know of 
no good cause. Pray help me.” 

It was pitiful to hear her ! Here was a girl generous, 
tender-hearted, full of good impulses, no doubt, with the 
means to indulge them to the full, but who had never done 
so, from sheer ignorance and lack of opportunity. The 
charities had never been cultivated at Lebanon Lodge. 
She was like some moral Laura Bridgman, with all the wish 
in the world to improve herself, but the soil had run barren 
because untilled. For the moment, the lawyer was lost in 
the religious philanthropist ; he saw in this girl, with her 
generous nature and vast income, an instrument ready to 
his hand for good. The vision vanished, however, like a 
breath. Duty with him, though it was by no means 
divorced from sentiment, was always in subjection to it ; 
he had something of the zealot about him, but not his 
greed. Grace might do good with her income, for there 
was enough and to spare of it ; but what he had in his 
mind was to save far the greater portion of it, so that when 
she came of age she should be in possession of a fortune 
which, however small compared with what should have 
been her share of her father’s wealth, should make her in- 
dependent of the conditions he had attached to its inherit- 
ance, and free to marry whom she chose. It was to the 
lawyer’s credit that he was well aware in this case she 
could never have the husband he had in his mind for her. 
A few thousand pounds would be a mere drop in the ocean 
towards restoring the family fortunes of Lord Cheribert. 

“ I will do what I can,” said Mr. Allerton, smiling, “ to 
put you in the way of finding out for yourself that what 
you rail against is not an unmixed evil. Money is dross, 
it is said ; but even dross — the very scum and refuse of 
things — may be turned to excellent use, just as out of the 
most offensive substances are extracted the sweetest 
scents.” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


ill 


Grace shook her head ; her face expressed disbelief, and 
even pain ; it was evident that her mind was dwelling on 
some distressful reminiscence. 

“ Your father himself was fond of money,” said the 
lawyer gently. 

u True ; but for the good it enabled him to do with it,” 
she exclaimed, with eagerness. “ 1 thank you for remind- 
ing me of that. He never spoke of his good deeds even 
to me ; but I remember once, when I was talking to him 
of his many friends, and how much he was sought after by 
persons of a rank far above our own, he said that it was 
his money which gave him the power to help them. 
‘ Every one can help the poor,’ he said, ‘my little Fairy; 
but these fine folks who are poor too, though in a different 
way, cannot be so easily assisted. I am the only man in 
the world, perhaps, that can keep their heads above 
water/ ” 

“ That was true,” assented the lawyer, with a smile that 
for her had nothing of sarcasm. 

“ Of course it was true. Dear papa was the soul of 
truth. ‘ I hope my little Fairy,’ he used to say, ‘ will never, 
never tell a falsehood/ ” 

The lawyer nodded again ; what she had said was likely 
enough ; “Josh ” used to aver, with a wiser man than he, 
though not so rich, that lying “ was a strain upon the 
memory.” 

“ And yet it is against a man like him — their own father 
— that Agnes and Philippa, just because he has left his 

money otherwise than they would have wished it 

Don’t let us talk of it ; don’t let us think of it, Mr. Aller- 
ton ! ” and she hid the face that was blushing for the shame 
of others. 

“ Still, as I have said, Grace, there is some excuse for 
them ; they have wrongs which, though you share them, 
you do not understand at present/’ 

“ And I trust I never shall,” she sobbed indignantly. 

“ I trust so, too,” he answered earnestly. “ Believe me, 
time will heal their disappointment, as it will your grief. 
Things will settle down. Your sisters’ roof, remember, is 
your natural home. They are surely not unkind to you? ” 

He asked the question in some trepidation. It would 
be a great responsibility, as well as an immense incon- 
venience, to have this girl thrown on his own hands, to be 
compelled to find a home for her and a protectress. 


112 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


“ No, no,” she answered, much to his relief ; “ they 
mean to be kind enough ; and if they only knew how 
wretched they made me by what they say to one an- 
other ” 

“ That shall be stopped,” put in the lawyer confidently. 
“ There shall be no more of it ; and when they cease to 
talk of their wrongs — which are not altogether fanciful, 
remember — they will cease to think of them ; that is 
woman’s way.” 

Girl as she was, Grace could have put him right on that 
point ; but she only inclined her head ; the subject was 
distasteful to her. 

“ Is Mr. Roscoe in the house just now ? ” inquired the 
lawyer. 

“ I suppose so,” answered the girl indifferently. It was 
that gentleman’s custom, not only like Hamlet’s father “ of 
an afternoon,” but in the morning, and also in the evening, 
to be at Lebanon Lodge ; and she saw nothing strange in 
the frequency of his visits. 

“Just so,” said the lawyer drily ; “your sisters have 
many matters to arrange with him, no doubt.” 

“ Agnes has, of course ; she naturally takes the lead, 
and he is her right hand as it were.” 

“ And Miss Philippa? ” 

“Philippa does not concern herself with affairs.” 

“ But she feels what you were telling me about this 
supposed injustice of your father’s will as keenly ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; I think even more,” sighed Grace, “ if that 
were possible.” 

“ Well, well, that will soon be over, I promise you. In 
the meantime, as you seem a little lonely ” 

“ By my own choice,” put in the girl. 

“ I understand that. I shall send you a little friend to 
keep you company — a ward of mine.” 

“ Oh, no, no strangers ; at least not yet,” pleaded the 
girl pitifully. 

“It’s only a dog, my dear,” he answered, smiling. “ I 
have been left its trustee and executor under an old lady’s 
will ; and I am sure I shall find no kinder mistress for 
it than yourself. It is a well-conducted dog, though it 
answers to the name of Rip. And now good-bye. I want 
to have a word or two with Mr. Roscoe about business 
matters, and will look in upon him as I go out.” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


»3 


The lawyer found Mr. Roscoe in his room, looking to 
the full as much at home there as he had done in his 
patron’s time. He received his visitor stiffly, but cour- 
teously enough ; his attitude seemed to be one of armed 
neutrality, ready for either peace or war. 

“You have been interviewing Miss Grace, I suppose,” 
he said with a quiet smile. 

“ Yes. I find it rather hard to impress upon her the 
sense of her own position.” 

“ She is utterly ignorant of business.” 

“ That was, of course, to be looked for ; but she exhibits 
a want of interest in her own affairs which is unusual even 
in a young lady.- You will agree with me that, under the 
circumstances, there is some danger in that, as it will pre- 
vent her from understanding the motives of others, who 
may not be so disinterested.” 

“ Quite so,” returned Mr. Roscoe blandly, “ and also 
their feelings. The latter consideration is of some conse- 
quence just now, and I am glad to have the opportunity of 
speaking to you upon the subject. It would, in my 
opinion, be better, for the present at least, that Miss 
Grace should be separated from her elder sisters.” 

Mr. Allerton stared in amazement — not only did the pro- 
position itself seem to him monstrous and unnatural, but 
it was also the last thing he expected the other to suggest. 
He knew that Roscoe must desire above all things to 
retain his influence over the whole family ; and why he 
should propose that the youngest of them, and presumably 
the most plastic, should be withdrawn from his control was 
inexplicable to him. He had the worst opinion of the man ; 
he regarded him as a respectable solicitor regards a dis- 
tinctly shady one, and Mr. Roscoe had not even the excuse 
of belonging to the law. 

“ You surely cannot be serious,” he replied. “ It would 
be a very grave step to take a girl of Miss Grace’s age from 
her natural protectors, and her own home. What on earth 
could justify such a course ? ” 

“ Circumstances,” returned Mr. Roscoe coolly. “ Very 
peculiar circumstances, I admit, but they exist in her case. 
She does not get on well with her sisters. They are irri- 
tated — naturally irritated, as I venture to think — by the 
provisions of their father’s will ; and, like most women, 
they are unable to control their tongues. She resents their 


THE BURNT MILLION 


114 

observations on him exceedingly, and they resent her de- 
fence of him. Some day or another, I am afraid, they will 
reveal to her his real character, of which she is in a state 
of blissful ignorance ; then she will have a very rude awa- 
kening from her Fool’s Paradise. That is a misfortune 
which, for her own sake, should if possible be avoided.” 

Mr. Allerton thought so too ; the contemplation of such 
a catastrophe, which he felt was only too likely to happen, 
alarmed him. It was impossible to surmise the effect of 
such a shock upon a delicate nature, already suffering from 
the keenest grief. On the other hand, he was convinced 
that it was no solicitude on Grace’s account that impelled 
this man to make the proposition. What could be his 
motive ? He could not fathom it, but his very failure to 
do so convinced him that it was a deep one. 

“ Such a revelation as you speak of, whether founded 
on fact or not,” returned the lawyer, “ would, indeed, be 
deplorable. I cannot conceive a more wicked and cruel 
act. Nor, if it is really to be apprehended, how it is pos- 
sible to be avoided. Grace has no other home to go "to.” 

Mr. Roscoe shrugged his shoulders and faintly smiled. 

“ W"e who are bachelors, Mr. Allerton, have much to 
learn as to the ways of women. It so happens, however, 
that I have had particular opportunities for studying the 
characters of the two ladies in question, and under feel- 
ings of strong irritation — I am speaking to you in confi- 
dence, of course — they are, in my judgment, capable of 
anything. As to avoiding such a contingency, it appears 
to me,” he continued in the same quiet tone, but flavored 
with the least touch of sarcasm, “ in view of this weighty 
consideration, and also of the trust and confidence that 
the late Mr. Tremenhere evidently reposed in you as 
regarded this young lady, that you are the proper person 
to provide a home for her.” 

“That is out of the question,” answered the lawyer 
firmly. “ If circumstances compelled her removal from 
her sister’s roof it would involve nothing less than a public 
scandal, since I should certainly seek for her the protection 
of the Court of Chancery. I could not have such a 
responsibility on my own shoulders upon any account. 
There would be some advantages in such a course, no 
doubt. She would be secure from adventurers ; whereas, 
as at present situated, she must be more or less exposed to 


THE BURNT MILLION 


n 5 


offers of marriage, an acceptance of any of which would, 
as you are well aware, be fatal to her material interests, 
though beneficial to those of her sisters. I’ll think about 
it ; but, on the whole, I am strongly of opinion that this 
danger is less serious than the moral and physical one in- 
volved in removing her from her own home and belongings 
and transplanting her elsewhere.” 

“That consideration, I confess, has never occurred to 
me,” said Mr. Roscoe, biting his lips, “ nor did I imagine 
that you would be so unwilling to take personal charge of 
the young lady. Well, I can only say, then, for the present 
that I will do my best here to smooth matters.” 

“ Grace is already indebted to you, she informs me,” 
said Mr. Allerton graciously, “ for your good offices in that 
respect.” 

“ See is very good to say so,” returned Mr. Roscoe, but 
his face, as the other took his leave, bore anything but a 
look of satisfaction. Mr. Allerton felt that his difficulty 
had been surmounted, but without knowing how that 
object had been achieved ; he had checkmated his adver- 
sary, he was convinced, but by some move he did not him- 
self understand. 

“ The scoundrel was as much frightened at the notion of 
my applying to Chancery about the girl,” said the lawyer 
to himself as he went his way, “ as I was at the idea of 
taking charge of her. What scheme can he be devising ? 
He did not like that prospect of a ‘ public scandal,’ I 
noticed. Of course he wants her to marry. Did he think 
that was more likely to happen if she left her home than if 
she remained, I wonder ? My argument to the contrary 
seemed to move him. But there must be something else 
beyond all that. It seems contrary to reason that he 
should wish to get rid of her ; yet he certainly did wish it 
till I threatened him with the Court. It cannot be that he 
feels himself equal to driving a pair but not the three, for 
he has pluck and perhaps skill enough to drive a dozen ; 
why, therefore, should he wish one of these three women 
away ? ” 

On this problem the old lawyer worked, with his hands 
behind him, like a boy before the Euclid board, on his 
road through the park. Before he came in sight of “ The 
Corner ” he exclaimed with triumph, “ I’ve got it ! Roscoe 
must have done, or be intending to do, something he is 


n6 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


very much ashamed of and afraid of being found out. 
The more eyes that are watching him under the same roof 
the greater is his danger of discovery ; and he wanted to 
get rid of at least a pair of them. Yes, I feel sure that 
must be it.” 

And the lawyer nodded to himself and pulled up his 
ample and old-fashioned shirt-collar, as was his habit when 
he had succeeded in any obscure calculation ; he thought 
he had hit the right nail on the head. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

ELM PLACE. 

It is only of late years that the beauties of the Thames 
have come to be appreciated even by Londoners ; I can my- 
self remember the time when that lovely reach between 
Maidenhead and Cookham was almost unvisited except by 
local admirers, and when an Eton eight-oar, rare as a 
whale that strays up from the sea to some river-mouth, 
used to create quite an excitement. 

The Sunday flotillas, to which illiberal shepherds give 
the grosser name of Pandemonium, was utterly unknown, 
and no one who lived on the banks and had a lawn stretch- 
ing down to the river dreamt that it could one day be his 
Pactolus. Even to the Americans, who are so quick to 
discover anything that is worth seeing in England, the 
Thames was at that time only associated with Windsor. 
Now all that is changed, and he who visits England for 
the sake of the picturesque and does not float down — the 
best way is on barges — from Oxford to Richmond has 
missed his aim. What is quite peculiar to the Thames, 
and a very great convenience to people of taste who have 
also plenty of cash at their bankers’, is, that there is 
scarcely a house on it that cannot be got during the summer 
months for money. The vicar lets his modest house and 
garden for that period for a rent that far surpasses his 
annual stipend ; the landed gentleman in these bad times 
lets his riparian mansion at a price that compensates him 
for the humiliation ; the widow parts temporarily with her 
modest cottage, and with the proceeds of the transaction 


THE BURNT MILLION 


fi7 


makes that tour on the Continent she has so long promised 
her daughters, but which, had not her house been on the 
Thames*, her poverty must have denied to them. For 
from twenty-five to fifty guineas a week the wealthy cit. 
for three months of the year can now secure a paradise, 
which, at the conclusion of his term, he gives up with a 
sigh to its proprietor, who takes it with a sigh, for he knows 
that his orange has been squeezed and flood and frogs will 
be his portion for the winter. While it lasts, however, 
there is no heaven on earth to be compared with the Thames 
heaven. 

In the case of the Tremenhere family, with their immense 
income, it was merely a question of which river palace to 
choose ; it is my belief that they could have had any one 
of them, excepting Windsor Castle, which has never yet 
been advertised, nor even, so far as I know, been disposed 
of for the summer months by private contract. It was 
late in the year, and the house agents shook their heads, 
but nodded them cheerfully when the Tremenhere purse 
was shaking before their eyes. If money was really no 
object, no doubt the matter could be arranged for the 
ladies, even if some tenant had to be bribed to give up his 
bargain. 

Mr. Roscoe, of course, conducted the negotiations ; he 
felt himself like a Monte Cristo, though only by deputy, 
and immensely enjoyed the experience. This gentleman, 
like his deceased partner, believed with all his heart and 
soul in money ; the possession of it afforded him an exqui- 
site pleasure, dashed only by the reflection that there was 
not more of it. There, however, the similarity ended. In 
Josh’s character the desire of acquisition never overmas- 
tered prudence ; Gain with him had been a good dog, but 
Holdfast was a better. 

Edward Roscoe never touched a card nor made a bet, and 
had a very wholesome contempt for those who dissipated 
their fortunes in such follies ; but he was a born gambler. 
The Stock Exchange for him supplied the place of the rou- 
lette-table and the race-coursc ; and his ventures, compared 
with his means, were very large. Of this his employer had 
by some means become aware, and, as we know, had taxed 
him with it. It was a reason which, even if he had believed 
him to be an honest man, would have always prevented 
him from leaving his subaltern in any position of trust as 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


i iS 

regarded his own fortune ; and the knowledge of this fact 
made Mr. Roscoe as bitter against him as the conditions of 
the will itself. 

When he had selected such summer palaces as he 
thought most suitable— the family only wanted one for six 
weeks, which, of course, greatly added to its cost — he pre- 
pared to take the ladies down to make their choice. The 
expedition promised to be a somewhat exhausting one, and 
Agnes volunteered to take this trouble off her sister’s 
hands. Grace was well content that it should be so ; but 
Philippa objected to the arrangement, and showed an un- 
wonted decision in opposing it. The conflict of opinion 
between them was sharper than the occasion seemed to 
warrant. Philippa even lost her temper, and “ said things.” 
One of them was that Agnes was not yet old enough to go 
roving about the country alone with a male friend. This 
remark, though complimentary to a certain limited extent, 
was not taken in good part. Some very bitter words passed 
between the two sisters. 

“ Mr. Roscoe shall decide for us,” at last exclaimed 
Agnes 

“ What ! Do you mean to say that you still wish to 
accompany him alone, notwithstanding what I have said 
about its impropriety ? ” inquired Philippa. “ How shame- 
less ! ” 

“ I shall do what Mr. Roscoe thinks right,” answered 
Agnes, with white face and lips that quivered with sup- 
pressed passion. 

It would have been a pretty quarrel in one sense, though 
anything but pretty in another, had not the bone of con- 
. tention, Mr. Roscoe himself, happened to come in, which of 
course prevented the subject being pursued on exactly the 
same lines. They could hardly discuss the delicate ques- 
tion of “ propriety ” in his presence ; but each expressed 
her views with warmth. Between Goneril and Regan 
this Edmond had a difficult role to play, but he played it 
to perfection. However angry they were with one another, 
he so contrived it that the arrows of their wrath were 
never aimed in his direction. Now, as they each looked 
at him as to their own counsel for his advocacy in their 
favor, it seemed impossible but that he should make one 
or other of them his enemy. Yet it was not so ; the office 
he undertook at once was that of judge. He had favoring 


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1 19 


eyes for both, though to the close observer there was a 
difference in the favor. His kindliest words were directed 
to Agnes, his most conciliatory looks were given to Phi- 
lippa. 

“ The question is of small importance, my dear ladies, as 
it seems to me,” he cheerfully observed, “ and there is no 
need to make a fuss about it. I thought myself, Philippa, 
as your sister had the management of all domestic matters, 
that she would be the properest person to make choice of 
your new home ; and I confess I do not understand, Agnes, 
why you, who are always so kind as well as sensible, should 
have any objection to Philippa’s accompanying us ; but, on 
the other hand, the doing so would leave Grace at home 
alone, which it would hardly be a nice thing to do. Under 
the circumstances, I must ask you both to leave the matter 
in my hands. The houses I have selected have all their 
good points, so that no great mistake can be made in any 
case, and I will go down by myself and choose the best of 
them.” 

His tone was gentle but firm ; it had a sort of paternal 
authority in it from which it seemed there was no appeal, 
for nothing more was said on the subject. There was a 
look of patient endurance in his face, which each of the 
ladies flattered themselves had been produced by her anta- 
gonist. 

“ How tiresome the dear fellow must find Philippa!” 
thought one to herself ; “ In what false positions Agnes is 
alway trying to place him ! ” thought the other. 

The next week they all went down to the river. The 
family circle had an addition in the person of a little black- 
and-white fox-terrier, Mr. Allerton’s promised present to 
Grace. It was not beautiful (from a dog-fancier’s. point of 
view), but accomplished ; that is to say, full of tricks. It 
tore everything to pieces that it did not swallow, with 
frantic enjoyment ; and with evident taste preferred a lady’s 
lap to the basket and cushion that had been provided for 
him. Whoever was sitting down had to accommodate 
him ; but, once installed, he was not troublesome so long 
as he was allowed to absorb some article of her attire ; if 
he had a preference it was for Brussels lace, of which 
Philippa, who was now always meditative and self-involved, 
missed some yards on his first day. Notwithstanding this 
he soon became a great favorite with the sisters, but espe- 


120 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


cially with his mistress. He was affectionate and full of 
caresses for them all ; but he had his dislikes, and one of 
them was for Mr. Roscoe. Sometimes he would get into 
a sort of hysterical frenzy at his presence, and bark at him 
as if he would bark his heart out ; but he generally con- 
tented himself with a pitiful whine that seemed to say, 

“ How can you, can you, ladies, allow this person to hang 
about your drawing-room, when you know how I hate him ! ” 
It is probable the antagonism was reciprocated, but Mr. 
Roscoe had his feelings more under control. 

Elm Place was somewhat higher up the river than its 
most beautiful reach (for some reason or other Clieveden 
had not been procurable) ; but it was a very fine house, 
and commanded an excellent view. It had a beautiful 
lawn sloping down to the stream, and an old walled gar- 
den at the back, in which Queen Anne had walked, and on 
certain occasions (though always at night) was even said 
to “ walk ” now. Behind rose great woods, with paths 
cunningly contrived so that here and there the noble 
landscape, with the windings of the tranquil river, was 
made to form a picture set in a leafy frame. This was 
Grace’s favorite retreat ; while her sisters lounged upon 
the lawn and feasted their eyes upon the ceaseless proces- 
sion of boats and pleasure-barges, she would, with Rip — 
“ the off-and-on companion of her walk ” — climb the full- 
foliaged hill, and gaze her fill upon less busy scenes mel- 
lowed by distance. She had plenty to think of, and more 
to dream about. Thanks to Mr. Allerton, she was secretly 
doing a great deal of good, though, as it were, by leverage ; 
sometimes she wished that she could do it with her own 
hands. For the first time, the riddle of the painful earth 
presented itself to her for reflection ; the unequal distribu- 
tion of wealth, and her own undeserved freedom from the 
cares and pains of poverty, disturbed her unsophisticated 
mind. No doubt she was in error, since her father had 
not been troubled by it ; but then he had had larger views, 
and found the opportunities for benevolence on a great 
scale. Her sisters no longer pained her by any reference 
to him ; but their very silence on the subject distressed 
her. However his wealth had benefited others while in his 
hands, it seemed to give little pleasure to those who had 
inherited it; she felt that it was somehow the cau.se of 
that estrangement between Agnes and Philippa, which 


7 HE BURNT MILLION 


12 1 


daily grew more marked. She knew not how to make 
peace between them ; she only vaguely understood that 
they were jealous of one another ; and any interference on 
her part, being so much the younger, she felt would be 
resented. It was a relief to her when her reflections were 
broken in upon by some piteous and smothered howls 
from her little companion, whom half a dozen times a day 
she had to pull out by his tail from a rabbit-hole into 
which the excitement of the chase had carried him further 
than he had intended. It might have been written with 
justice upon Rip’s grave that “ He never, never caught a 
rabbit,” but he tried to catch one many times. The 
“ motive,” however, upon which the divines very properly 
lay such stress, let us hope, was sufficiently punished on 
each occasion by his being so nearly buried alive. 

One morning Mr. Roscoe, who was lodging at Milton, a 
village nearly opposite Elm Place, much frequented by 
boating-men, brought over with him a visitor, Lord Cheri- 
bert. The two elder sisters were, as usual, on the lawn, 
and gave him an eager welcome. He was not unknown to 
them, as we are aware, but they had probably never 
expected to see him again. They were much better 
informed than Grace of the nature of the relations that had 
existed between their father and the aristocracy, and were 
very pleased to be thus taken notice of. They had seen 
scarcely anyone since their bereavement, and even an 
ordinary morning caller would have been treated with 
rapture — a lord was, of course, a Godsend. 

The young fellow addressed a few words of sympathy to 
them, in suitable tones, but soon observed, much to his 
relief, that their woe had been already relegated to what 
the mourning establishments call “ the mitigated grief 
department,” and it did not seem to him surprising. It 
was impossible, he thought in his artless way, that anybody 
should really be in the doldroms who had come into such 
a “ pot of money.” Josh’s will had not yet been published, 
but the fact of his finding them where they were was proof 
that his “ little leavings ” (as his lordship spoke of them, 
just as his nautical friends called London “ the village ”) 
had taken a natural direction. 

“ We did not know you were a boating man, Lord Che- 
ribert,” said Agnes graciously, with a glance at his aquatic 
costume. 


122 


7 HE BURNT MILLION. 


“ Nor am I,” he replied, with a slight blush (by no 
means caused, however, by this reference to his airy garb) ; 
“ I am much better at steering than pulling ; but the fact 
is, I had some business with Mr. Roscoe (he would never 
call him “ Roscoe/’ which annoyed that gentleman exces- 
sively), and, finding him down at Milton, I could not 
resist the temptation of looking in upon you. I hope 
Miss Grace is well.” 

He had been looking round for her with some impa- 
tience, which both the sisters set down to its true cause, 
yet, strangely enough without the least feelingof jealousy. 
It might have been thought by some that this angelic state 
of affairs resulted from the peculiar conditions of their 
father’s will, which made it to their advantage that Grace 
should find a wooer; but, to do them justice, it was not 
so. They did not covet Lord Cheribert except as a very 
eligible acquaintance, and they thought it only natural 
that the youth and beauty of their sister should have made 
an impression on him. They had no desire to be enriched at 
her expense, which would, after all, be only an increase to 
their incomes, concerning which they had nothing to com- 
plain of. Yet if Lord Cheribert’s visit had any serious 
intention as regarded Grace it would make little difference 
to her, since they knew he was heir to a vast estate, whe- 
ther she had her money or not ; while to have a brother- 
in-law who would one day be a peer of the realm was an 
idea little short of rapturous. 

“ As to Grace,” said Agnes, smiling, “ you will proba- 
bly have the opportunity of judging of the state of her 
health, Lord Cheribert, with your own eyes, for here 
comes her avant-coitreur. Where is your mistress, Rip?” 

Rip was tearing down from the house to them as usual 
at full speed ; he whirled round the ladies like a dancing 
dervish, snatched at the hem of Mr. Roscoe’s trousers 
with an angry bark, and then leapt into Lord Cheribert’s 
lap as he sat in the garden chair, and ensconced himself 
on his soft flannels as though he had taken a lease of them 
for the summer months. 

“ What a dear dog ! ” exclaimed his lordship, in acknow- 
ledgment of this friendly conduct. 

“ You may well say that,” said Philippa ; “ we calculate 
that he has cost us about fifty pounds already in breakages 
and depredations, and we have only had him a month.” 


THE BURNT MILLION 


123 


“ Can he swim ? ” inquired Lord Cheriberl, without 
thinking of what he was saying ; for his thoughts, like his 
eyes, were fixed on a figure that now made its appearance 
at the open drawing-room window. 

u I am sorry to say he can,” said Mr. Roscoe gloomily. 
“ He is not charming, to mv mind, but he bears a charmed 
life.” 

“ How can you talk so cruelly ! ” said Philippa reproach- 
fully, and Agnes made a blow at the hard-hearted 
speaker with her parasol which would have scarcely injured 
a gnat. 

“ I am torn by contending emotions, Miss Grace ! ” 
exclaimed the young lord, smiling. “ I want to rise to do 
you honor, but I am afraid of disturbing your little 
favorite.” 

u Pray keep your seat, Lord Cheribert.” 

Her tone was gracious as she held out her hand to him, 
but very grave. She was thinking of the last and only 
time she had seen him, when he had been introduced to 
her by her father. She wore, of course, the same deep 
mourning as her sisters, but, as it seemed to the suitor, with 
a difference. It is not the trappings and the suits of woe 
that make us sad to look upon, but the heart that mourns 
within us ; yet to his eye the girl appeared more beautiful 
in her sorrow than she had in her joy upon her birthday 
fete. 

“ I should not have called so soon,” he murmured 
apologetically, “but that I found myself near your house.” 

“ We are glad to see you. I have heard of your kind 
inquiries about us from Mr. Allerton — they touched me 
very much,” she added softly, and with a break in her 
voice. 

“I should have been very ungrateful if I had forgotten 

” Here he stopped ; he had been about to say “ what 

I owed to your father,” but he suddenly recollected that 
the phrase was open to a double meaning. It was not 
possible that what one owed to him could be forgotten, 
since “Josh” had taken great care to have it put down in 
black and white. The young man’s unfinished sentence, 
however, was undesignedly perfect, and she thanked him 
for it with her eyes. 

“ We must think it a great compliment that Lord 
Cheribert looked in upon us,” explained Agnes, “since he 


124 


THE BURNT MILLION 


is not a devotee to aquatics, he tells us, though he wears 
the garb of one.” 

“ I am glad to be doing so, since Miss Grace’s little dog 
seems so partial to flannels,” said the young fellow. 

It was rather an indirect method of pleasing Rip’s mis- 
tress ; but Agnes was too satisfied with the motive to 
question the speech. To find a lord so civil to them was 
in itself a joy. The speaker himself, on the other hand, 
was uneasily conscious of having said something ridiculous, 
and, as is usual in such cases, blundered on. 

“ At least, if it isn’t the flannels, I can’t think how I have 
so soon ingratiated myself into his affections. Perhaps 
our characters are sympathetic. What is the little 
doggie’s name ? ” 

“ Rip ! ” exclaimed Mr. Roscoe, with unmistakable 
significance. 

Lord Cheribert laughed aloud, but the color rushed into 
his face. The two elder ladies kept their eyes riveted on 
the ground, in silence ; but Grace, unconscious of the 
unfortunate coincidence, came to the rescue. 

“Rip is a very affectionate, well-meaning dog,” she said, 
“notwithstanding his bad name and naughty ways.” 

The young lord, who was not without a sense of humor, 
removed his cap in acknowledgment of the unintended 
compliment, and the rest of the party relieved their feelings 
by a ripple of laughter. 

“ I really don’t see ” began Grace, blushing to her 

forehead. 

“ Then I beg nobody to open your eyes,” interrupted 
the young man fervently. “ Your sisters and Mr. Roscoe 
are bent upon blackening my character, Miss Grace. It is 
as pure as the driven snow — after it has fallen a day or 
two,” and he joined heartily in the mirth of the others. 

There is nothing that puts people on such easy terms 
with one another as a joke at the expense of one of them 
good-humoredly enjoyed ; and Lord Cheribert — who was 
very easily put at his ease — found himself quite at home. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


125 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

CONFIDENCES. 

Although Lord Cheribert was not a boating-man, he was 
well acquainted with river life \ he had a natural tendency 
towards sport of every description ; to say the truth, cared 
for little else. It is often said of this and that clever young 
fellow who shoots, or rides, or even plays whist or billiards 
to admiration, that the talents he exhibits in these pursuits 
would, properly directed, lead him to fame or fortune ; but 
the fact is, some men are born with a marvelous capacity 
for sports and games, and for nothing else. The pupil of 
Plato's whom the philosopher would have 

Formed for virtue’s nobler view 
By precept and example too, 

but who would persist in astonishing the crowd at the 
Corinthian games by his skill as a whip (which must have 
been considerable), was one of this class. Though he 
could make the wheels of his four-in-hand 

Along the indented plain the self-same track to mark again, 

it is probable he could never have pursued even a single 
course of philosophic lectures. The thing was not in him ; 
he was born for a life of pleasure. A contemptible existence, 
it may be said, enough ; but, on the other hand, it is to be 
noted that your born sportsmen (in the English, not the 
American sense) is not always an idle man, and does not 
necessarily turn out the total wreck and failure that a man 
of pleasure who is not a sportsman is almost sure to 
become. He may be dissipated, but he need not be 
debauched ; he may be reckless, but he is rarely callous ; 
he may easily enough, under adverse circumstances, be a 
scamp, but there is generally something wholesome about 
him which preserves him from being a scoundrel. Lord 


126 


THE BURNT MILLION, 


Cheribert was a man of this kind ; but though he had no 
aptitude for the serious business of life, he had gifts which 
would have made him a social success — would have ensured 
him, that is, a personal popularity in any branch of it. 
Being a lord and the heir to a great estate, his gracious 
manners and handsome face, his humor and frankness, 
would have made him a persona grata with society could 
he have been induced to mingle with it ; but society bored 
him. Compared with the ordinary devotees of the turf, 
who had been his chosen companions, he seemed like an 
angel, though undoubtedly a fallen one ; with them he was 
like the one-eyed man among the blind. But to those who 
knew nothing about his antecedents — and even to some 
who did — he was, superficially, very attractive. He had 
the art of making himself agreeable without exertion in a 
high degree. With women he was an immense favorite ; 
his male friends, with more jealousy than justice, called 
him “ the innocent seducer.” He was no more capable of 
seduction, in its ordinary sense, than of theft. 

Though, as we have said, not aquatic, he was conversant 
with boating matters, and in one half-hour put his audience 
so much au courant with everything in connection with 
them, that the changing scenes of river life constantly pre- 
sented to their eyes were invested with thrice the attraction 
they had hitherto possessed for them. 

“ I know Elm Place quite well,”. he. said ; “ Villiers had 
it, you know ” (here he turned to Mr. Roscoe), “ who came 
to grief t>ver Camperdown at Doncaster.” 

Mr. Roscoe nodded ; he could have given other causes 
for Mr. Villiers having come to grief, had he so chosen. 

“ Indeed,” continued the young fellow, “ I have lunched 
before ” (for they were now partaking of that meal) “ in 
this very room,” and he looked round him with an air of 
reminiscence. 

It was a large apartment, with four French windows, all 
now open, so that, except for the comfort with which the 
meal was served, it might have been a picnic. “ To my 
mind it is the pleasantest house upon the river, though 
that roar of the Milton Weir has always a melancholy 
sound to my ears.” 

“ I rather like it,” said Agnes ; “ it reminds me of the 
London traffic, which, when one is away from town, one 
somehow always misses.” 


THE BURNT MILLION 


127 


“ And you, Miss Grace ? ” inquired Lord Cheribert. 

“ Yes, I like it, too. There is something soothing, if a 
little sullen, in that eternity of sound.” 

“ I used to like it once myself,” said the young man 
gravely ; “ but for me it has now a tragic association.” 

“ Really ? Oh, do tell us ! ” exclaimed Philippa. “ I 
do so love tragedy.” 

This was not true, for incidents of a tragic nature “ up- 
set ” her. It will be remembered how dreadfully “ cut up,” 
as Mr. Roscoe had expressed it, she had been on the 
occasion of her father’s death, though she had since come 
to regard her loss with a little too much philosophy. She 
was more emotional than Agnes, and certainly more easily 
frightened. When she said she loved a tragedy, she only 
meant that she was curious to know what had happened 
at the weir. The river forked at Milton Weir, where a 
few posts marked out the course of its main current ; the 
side stream rushed through these posts at speed, and then 
with increased velocity dashed over the weir in foam and 
thunder. 

li Well, it is rather a sad story to tell people at lunch,” 
said Lord Cheribert unwillingly ; “ but I suppose such 
things are constantly happening on the river; there is 
scarcely an eddy which has not had its victim, or a bathing- 
place where somebody has not been drowned; only I saw 
this with my own eyes, you see, which makes a difference. 
We were sitting at this very table — a whole lot of us — 
when an argument arose about boating. Some said you 
could “shoot” Milton Weir, and others that you could 
not, and then the speed and force of the by-stream, that 
leads to the lock, was discussed, and whether a good 
swimmer could hold his own in it. Young Picton, of the 
Guards, said he was sure it could be done, and offered to 
back himself to pass the posts, and swim round the one 
which stands with a ring through it, about thirty yards 
further down, in the very centre of the stream, and back 
again. It seemed rather a foolhardy thing to try, but he 
said he had been in worse places in the river (though it 
would be difficult to find them), and I backed him, though 
at long odds, to do it. I regret that bet to this day.” 

“ Still, as you were backing him,” observed Mr. Roscoe, 
“ it could not have influenced him in any way to undertake 
the matter.” 


128 


THE BURNT MILLION 


“ I am not sure,” said the young lord gloomily ; “ ii 
there had been no backers there would have been no 
layers, and I put a pony on it. A lot of us went off to the 
place at once in a couple of punts ; young Picton was in 
my boat, in the highest spirits. He was not twenty, and 
as fine a young fellow as there was in the regiment. When 
he had stripped, and just before he took his header, he 
called out : ‘ Get your money ready, I shall be back under 
the ten minutes.’ But he never came back to us alive.” 

“ How horrible ! ” exclaimed Grace with a shudder. 

“ Why, yes, as it turned out,” assented Lord Cheribert 
in a gentle and contrite tone ; “ but nothing was further 
from our thoughts than his being drowned. He might not 
get round the middle post, which he had backed himself 
to do, but we thought he would at least be drawn down by 
the current to the weir, where there is a landing stage. But 
that by-stream is full of under-currents, as we were after- 
wards told, and the poor boy, though he got round the 
post, was whirled round and round before our eyes, and 
presently pulled under as though a rope had been tied to 
his legs. When the place was dragged for him, it was 
found choked with water weeds, and he among them. 
And that is why I don’t like the sound of the Milton Weir.” 

The ladies looked greatly horrified, and there was an 
unpleasant silence at the conclusion of the young lord’s 
narrative. Mr. Roscoe broke it by observing drily, “ But 
you won your bet ? ” 

“ I won it, but I did not take it,” replied Lord Cheribert. 
“ As the other man was obliged, of course, to pay, I sent 
the hundred pounds — for he had bet me 4 to 1 — to the 
Royal Humane Society. I was more sentimental at that 
time than since you have known me, Mr. Roscoe,” he 
added sharply. 

“ It was quite the right thing to do,” said that gentle- 
man with undisturbed serenity. 

“ If you think so, that, of course, settles the question.” 

The young man was rather ashamed of the weakness he 
had exhibited, and resented exceedingly the other’s cynical 
comment. His irritation was so far of advantage, that the 
spectacle of it turned the thoughts of the ladies from the 
tragic episode he had been describing, and Agnes, with 
some tact, began to praise the Royal Humane Society, and 
then, gradually extricating herself from the subject, pro- 
posed a walk in the grounds. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


129 


She was a clever woman, though her sympathies were 
restricted within narrow limits. Her natural horror at the 
incident just described had already quitted her, as water 
slips from a duck’s back ; though it was not so with 
Philippa, and much less with Grace, whose face still wore 
an expression of distress and pain. Lord Cheribert was 
angry with himself, as Agnes saw, for having evoked it. 

“ Do you know the view from the hill at the back of the 
house ? ” she asked him. “ Grace has made some sketches 
of it ; show them to Lord Cheribert, my dear.” 

The sketches were sent for and duly admired. 

“They are charming,” said the young man ; “would it 
be rude to ask if they are truthful ? ” 

“ You are putting the artist on the horns of a dilemma,” 
put in Agnes, smiling ; “ she must either confess to failure 
or run the risk of being thought conceited.” 

“ You are quite right,” said the young man humbly. “ I 
am always making a fool of myself. Let us go up the hill 
by all means.” 

Then it so happened that Agnes and Philippa had some 
alteration to make in their toilettes, while Grace had none ; 
so Lord Cheribert and herself started a little in advance 
of them, Mr. Roscoe, of course, delaying for the two elder 
ladies, on one or other of whom he was in constant 
attendance. 

“ I hope I have not shocked you too much with my sad 
tale, Miss Grace,” said the young lord, in a tone of tender 
apology, as they walked up the hill. 

“ I was shocked, I confess, Lord Cheribert.” 

“ I do not wonder at it ; I was wrong to tell the story. 
It is a terrible thing for a fine young fellow to be cut off 
like that.” 

“ For a bet,” observed Grace with severity. 

“ Yes, and, as you say, for a bet. I used to bet a good 
deal, as I daresay you have heard.” 

“ I have heard something about it.” 

“ Well, I don’t do it now ; at least I don’t mean to do 
it after next month.” 

“ Why next month ? ” 

“ Because that is when my race comes off, you know ; 
or rather you don’t know. It is very much after time. I 
have promised my father that it shall be my last profes- 
sional performance on the pig — I mean in the saddle.” 


130 


THE BURNT MILLION 


“ Do you mean that you are a professional jockey? ” 

“ Well, no : not quite that,” he answered, smiling ; 
“ there are gentlemen riders of course. You seem to be 
quite ignorant of these things ; most of the ladies I know 
. — but, to be sure, I don’t know many— are devoted to 
racing.” 

“ And to bets ? ” 

“ Yes, and to bets. Of course some of them only bet 
gloves — those always want a point or two, I notice, beyond 
the odds ; but some of them make regular books, and are 
quite as keen about the money as we are.” 

“ I don’t think I should like those ladies.” 

“ I daresay not ; I am not wildly fond of them myself. 
I prefer quiet girls, who have good feelings and — and — 
what a dear doggie that is of yours ! Rip, Rip ! ” and the 
little creature barked and danced around the young lord, 
just as he would have had him to do, and so preserved 
him from a very considerable embarrassment. Grace had 
by no means fallen in love with him, as perhaps he flat- 
tered himself, and was not embarrassed in the least. If 
she had understood his meaning, as he now felt, she might 
not only have been embarrassed but even angry ; he had 
been goingmuch too quick and too far, but Rip had saved 
him. Dogs have great sagacity ; in Hampshire they are 
trained for truffle hunting, why should they not be also 
trained for “ gooseberry picking ” — to accompany young 
people in the early days of their “walking ” together, and 
to make diversions just at the right moment ? 

“ Since you disapprove of those who are keen, as you 
express it, about winning money from their friends, Lord 
Cheribert,” said Grace after a puuse, “ why do you like to 
do it yourself? ” 

“ I was only speaking of the matter as regards ladies, 
Miss Grace. With a man, of course, it is different. What 
is a fellow to do — I mean a fellow in my position — if he 
does not speculate a little ? I don’t understand invest- 
ments, as your poor father did, so I try the turf, not with 
such satisfactory results. I am sorry to say.” He was 
defending himself by this reference to Mr. Tremenhere, 
but he little knew the effectiveness of his weapon. She 
took a milder view of the young man’s proceedings at 
once, though he had not her father’s excellent motives. 

“ Yes, I suppose the desire of gain is natural to a man,” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


*3 r 


she said, “ like his delight in hunting. I can’t understand 
the attraction in either case, so I suppose I am no judge 
of it. You don’t want the money and you don’t want the 
fox.” 

“ Oh, but there you are quite mistaken, Miss Grace,” he 
put in earnestly. “ As to the fox, I have not a word to 
say ; he has a disagreeable smell, which the money never 
has — even the old Romans knew that — non o/et, they said 
— and I want it exceedingly. Considering what people 
are pleased to call my ‘position,’ I am the greatest pauper 
in all England.” 

“You don’t look like it,” answered Grace, smiling. 
His frankness and the smile that so well suited with it 
were having their effect upon her. 

“ Well, these flannels are not costly, though my tailor 
will have to wait for his money for them. But it is the 
very fact of one’s having to keep up a certain appearance 
that prevents one from retrenching; at least that is what 
the governor says in explanation of what Mr. Roscoe 
would call a tightness in the money market. I am 
ashamed of myself for speaking of such matters to you, 
Miss Grace ; but if any one should ever tell you that I am 
exceedingly hard up, I am sorry to say — whatever might 
be their motive for saying it — that they would only be say- 
ing the truth.” 

She looked at him in some surprise, for his tone seemed 
unnecessarily earnest. 

“ I don’t suppose any one is likely to say anything of 
the kind to me, Lord Cheribert.” 

“ Very likely not,” he laughed uneasily; “but if they do, 
you know, you might just tell them that you had been 
made aware of the fact by the person principally inter- 
ested. Now I daresay you are saying to yourself what an 
egotistic creature this man is to bore me with his private 
affairs, in which I cannot see one ray of interest.” 

“ Nay, Lord Cheribert, that is not so,” she answered 
gently ; “ but, no doubt through my own stupidity, I am 
utterly unable to understand the immense importance 
which people, who have enough to live upon, attach to 
more money.” 

“ Indeed ! ” He looked surprised in his turn. “ Well, 
the fact is, I am not in a position to enlighten you upon 
that point,” replied the young fellow, laughing, “for I have 


132 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


never had enough to live upon. I have been in debt ever 
since I was at school.” 

“ That means that you have always lived beyond your 
income, and, I am afraid, been very extravagant,” she 
answered reprovingly. 

“ People do say that,” he admitted gravely, “ but then 
they will say anything. Selwyn says — but perhaps you 
don’t know Selwyn — that if you spend every shilling on 
yourself it is quite extraordinary how far your money can 
be made to go ; but I protest I never found it so.” 

“ And have you spent every shilling on yourself, Lord 
Cheribert? ” 

“ Directly or indirectly, every sixpence.” 

“ Then you must forgive me for saying that I think it 
shameful. Some of us err in that way through ignorance 
of what is going on in the world, but that cannot be your 
case. Pray Heaven for a human heart, my lord.” 

And she stood regarding him, face to face, with a flush 
of indignation on her cheek, and the fire of scorn in her 
eyes, he stared at her in amazement. 

“ My heart is human enough, Miss Grace,” he answered 
humbly, “ and I don’t think it is hard.” 

“ Pardon me ; I had no right to speak so, Lord Cheri- 
bert.” 

“ Nay pardon me ; you have a right, if you will permit 
me to say that much. But I don’t think I am quite so 
worthless as I seem.” She would have spoken, but he 
stopped her with a gesture. “ Pray listen to me one mo- 
ment in my own defence. There are those who will tell 
you that I have had great advantages, and therefore ought 
to be a better man. I ought, Heaven knows, but not on 
that account. I have had ^advantages of every kind. 
Spoilt from my cradle, fawned upon even in boyhood, 
which it is most falsely told us is the age of naturalness, 
flattered as I grew up, to the top of my bent, I have never 
heard the truth about myself, till now, from a single voice, 
save one, and that a harsh one — my own father’s.” 

“ Had you no mother ? ” inquired Grace softly. 

“ She died before I knew her.” 

“ So did mine,” murmured the girl. 

“But you, at least, had a father who loved you dearly. 
That was not my case. I do not know when it was that 
he began to look coldly upon me, but it was too early. I 


THE BURNT MILLION, 


*33 


Was one to be led, I think — I could never stand being 
driven — but there was no one to lead me ; and now, per- 
haps, it is too late.” 

Grace trembled, but not, as the young man perhaps 
imagined, from any notion of taking him in hand ; she 
trembled at her audacity in having taken it upon herself 
to lecture him. She felt like a timid schoolmistress who 
has “ tackled ” too big a boy. 

“ I understand,” she said, “you have been reconciled to 
your father.” 

“Yes, that is so, in a sort of way. He means to be 
kind now, I think — after next month.” 

“ Next month ? ” 

“ Yes, after my last race is ridden. His paternal heart 
will not begin to yearn for me till I have left the turf. 
Mr. Allerton will tell you all about it, if you are so good 
as to ask him.” 

The young girl blushed on her own account for the first 
time. She recognized at once that there could be only 
one reason for her making inquiry of Mr. Allerton about 
Lord Cheribert’s prospects of amendment, and, above all, 
for his asking her to do so. The young man perceived 
her embarrassment and at once endeavored to relieve it. 

“Perhaps some day or other, Miss Grace,” he continued, 
smiling, “ I shall be a pattern son and a reformed character, 
and you will say ‘ Good boy ’ instead of scolding me.” 

“ I never meant to scold you ; I had no right ” 

“ You said that before,” he put in quickly ; “ I hope you 
will not repeat it. It is the only thing you have said to me 
that was not kind. — Rip ! Rip ! good doggie ! so they are 
coming up, are they ? — How quick his ears are for the feet 
of a friend ! Here are your sisters and Mr. Roscoe.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE WEIR. 

Of all pleasure-vessels, there is none so much run down — 
though it has the reputation of doing that to others — as 
the river steam-launch. It is too big for its place ; it is 
ugly ; its voice is strident and ear-piercing ; and it causes 


134 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


waves to rise in its wake that are a great nuisance to 
rowing-boats. All this is very true ; but, for comfort and 
convenience to its passengers, give me (or even lend me) 
a steam-launch, in preference to any other boat that cleaves 
the stream. There are no perspiring 'rowers to watch, 
which of itself is a relief to anyone gifted with human pity ; 
you can move about without upsetting the ship, or ship- 
ping a sea, or unshipping the rudder, or doing anything 
nautically objectionable ; you have not got to look out 
(metaphorically speaking) for squalls ; another has to look 
out for you — and squalls ; you can take your lunch like a 
civilized being, and a much better one than ever came out 
of a row-boat ; you are not concerned about the difference 
between up-stream and down-stream ; you “ need no aid 
of sail or oar, and heed no spite of wind or tide ” ; and 
when it rains you can get under cover. 

Of course there was a steam-launch attached to Elm 
Place, as well as a flotilla of skiffs and punts ; its name was 
the Comet , but when the Tremenheres used it it was more 
commonly termed the Compassion , because of its gentle 
ways. Grace would never go on board of it save under a 
solemn promise that it should not spurt unless the course 
was clear; that it should “ slow ” whenever there was a 
boat within fifty yards of it ; and that it should never be 
allowed to scream. When it wanted the lock gates open 
a horn was blown, vice the steam-whistle superseded. 
This made it a floating heaven for everybody as well as the 
angel herself. Sometimes the Compassion would tow a 
boat or two up-stream, when the joy and gratitude of the 
tired oarsmen were delightful to see, and proved what they 
really thought of rowing. 

Lord Cheribert, in spite of his flannels, was never 
unwilling to forego the delights of boating and accept an 
invitation from the ladies to go up or down the river in the 
Comet . He generally had a bet or two with Mr. Roscoe 
• — just a sovereign or so, unless that gentleman thought it 
a particularly “ good thing,” when he would “ make it a 
fiver ” — about how many boats there would be in a lock, 
or how many swans they would meet in a mile — for he 
could no more help betting than he could help breathing ; 
it was not, however, that time was heavy on his hands, for 
he enjoyed these little trips amazingly, and had an idea 
that he was getting domestic. His company was greatly 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


*35 


appreciated by Mr. Roscoe, because he won money of him ; 
by the two elder sisters, because he was a lord (they would 
like to have painted on him — as the boat had the Cojnet 
on her stern — “ This is a lord”) ; and by Grace, because 
she really liked him. His manners were unexceptionable ; 
his talk was bright and genial ; and she believed that he 
had a good heart. Perhaps he had ; it ought at all events to 
be in good condition, for it had suffered nothing from use. 
It had experienced a few impulses — some creditable to him, 
but some the reverse — that was all. Grace likened him 
with the poet to the lily. 

But Lord Cheribert was not, it must be confessed, very 
like that emblem of purity in other respects. He once told 
an old friend of hers with whom he was acquainted, in an 
unwonted moment of confidence, that Grace Tremenhere 
“ did him good ” ; and in a vague sort of way, I think, she 
shared this notion. There is nothing so pleasing to a girl’s 
nature as the belief that she is reforming a: rake, though, as 
a general rule, she might as well stroke a hedgehog with 
the object of making that animal smooth. Grace did not 
flatter herself to this extent; but it did not escape her 
observation that in her presence the young fellow was 
always at his best ; that he toned himself down, as it were 
— “ slowed ” like the Comet — and strove to make his con- 
versation agreeable to her. She sighed over him while she 
smiled at him. Pier sisters often interchanged significant 
glances in connection with these young people, and even 
whispered to one another : 

“ I really think this will come to something.” 

Mr. Roscoe nodded adhesion, and, with less circumlocu- 
tion, observed, “ He’s hooked ” — an expression more for- 
cible than appropriate, since it suggested that the young 
lady had been fishing for him, which was very far indeed 
from being the case. 

A great deal of river life was seen from the deck of the 
Comet , and a very picturesque and pleasant spectacle it 
was. Grace grew quite learned about it, thanks to Lord 
Cheribert’s teaching, who enjoyed his tutorship amazingly, 
and could not understand what the poor devils had to com- 
plain about who found coaching so irksome ; he would 
have taught her anything he knew with the same alacrity, 
though the terms of payment were less distinctly under- 
stood than he could have wished. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


136 

Their neighbors at Milton in the aquatic line particular- 
ly interested the ladies ; it is a village as completely given 
up to boating-men in the summer months as Switzerland is 
to tourists. Every day fifty fine young fellows, in every 
description of river craft, from the pfint to the canoe, set 
forth from it up stream or down, and many of their sun- 
burnt faces grew quite familiar to them. The two London 
eight-oars were their favorite boats, the crews of which 
were probably even more familiar with them, though 
neither party had interchanged a word. Whether, in 
acknowledgment of the courtesy exercised by the Compas- 
sion in “ slowing,” or from the natural chivalry of their dis- 
position, these young gentlemen would often get up a race 
for the amusement of its owners, and in return the launch 
would sometimes tow them home. When this happened 
the ladies had an opportunity of observing their unknown 
friends with considerable particularity. At first the 
Monarch used to beat the Prudent , but after a while the 
result of the struggle was the other way, in consequence, 
as Lord Cheribert said, of a change in the latter’s crew. 
The new stroke was a stranger to him, but he had heard 
something about him, and indeed it was natural to those 
who saw Walter Sinclair for the first time to inquire who 
he was. He was not only a tall powerful young fellow, 
exceptionally good-looking — fair except as to face and 
hands, which the sun had tanned to a tawny hue, and with 
nut-brown hair that seemed to curl more and more as he 
warmed to his work — but had an air of great distinction. 
Though evidently a gentleman, he had not the aristocratic 
appearance of Lord Cheribert ; but his expression, which 
is unusual among boating men, was curiously thoughtful. 
When he was pulling he pulled with a will — or, as Mr. 
Roscoe expressed it, “ like ten thousand devils ” — but 
when in repose he seemed to lose himself. He seldom 
joined in the subdued talk and laughter of the rest of the 
crew at their ease ; his grey eyes seemed to be looking into 
space for something beyond the horizon. Yet they took 
in every thing about him — he was the best “ look-out” in 
the boat — and sometimes (though he was much too well 
bred to stare) they took in the Comet , every stick of her, 
like a flash of lightning. He interested the ladies consi- 
derably, who named him Werter from his supposed dispo- 
sition to melancholy ; but whether he was so or not, he 


THE BURNT MILLION, 


*37 


was certainly the cause of melancholy to the Monarch. 
Lord Cheribert affirmed that he was as good a swimmer as 
he was an oarsman, and that he could give any of his com- 
panions ten yards in a hundred in a foot race. They 
called him the Cherokee, because he had been amongst the 
American Indians, and had acquired some of their accom- 
plishments. 

One afternoon the Comet made rather a longer voyage 
than usual, down to Windsor ; it was a day Grace long 
remembered. Never had the river looked so bright and 
joyous. She could scarcely tell whether the warmth of 
the sunshine in the open, or the chequered shadow of the 
woods, or the coolness of the locks, as the launch sank 
with the sinking of the waters, was most delightful. The 
Castle, seen from the bosom of Father Thames — the 
noblest spectacle that man’s hand has ever given 
to man’s eye ; the woods of Clieveden not yet touched 
with autumn’s fiery finger; the peaceful villages on 
either side the stream had never seemed to her 
so beautiful. Lord Cheribert sat near her, quietly 
smoking the contents of his cigar-case, which was of the 
size of a small portmanteau ; if he could not always sym- 
pathize with her thoughts, he knew when she did not want 
them disturbed, and found satisfaction enough in looking 
at her as she sat with Rip on her lap, and her dreamy 
eyes half closed. There are eyes which, though beautiful 
in themselves, look better so, as Solomon (who had a 
great experience) well understood : they take us with their 
lids. Presently the dog leaped down and began to bark ; 
a swan was hissing at someone in a canoe. It was ungrate- 
ful of the bird, for the man had been feeding her with 
biscuits, and when his store was finished, and he moved 
lightly away with a silvery splash of his oar, she resented 
it. It was Werter, as they called him, returning home and 
close to Milton lock. Its gates received his canoe, as 
well as the launch, into its icy bosom, which slowly rose 
with both of them. There are few places where we. get so 
good a view of our fellow-creatures as when we are in the 
same lock with them ; it is almost as good as being in the 
same boat. 

“ What a magnificent fellow that Sinclair is ! ” observed 
Lord Cheribert softly ; “ it is a pity that Oxford could not 
have him in their boat at Putney.” 


THE BURNT MILLION, 


138 

“ He is not a University man, then ? ” inquired Grace. 

“ Oh, no ; he has had a rough time of it in his life, I 
believe, out in the Wild West.” 

“ He does not look rough.” 

“ No, indeed. He is gentle and good-natured enough, 
they tell me.” 

Here the young fellow put his hand upon the launch to 
steady his frail craft, and Rip, having sniffed at it as if it 
were something nice to eat, proceeded to lick his fingers. 

“ It is a good sign when your little dog takes to a man, 
Miss Grace, is it not? ” whispered Lord Cheribert. 

“ I don’t think Mr. Roscoe would agree with that senti- 
ment,” answered the girl, smiling. “ But nevertheless, 
generally speaking, I think it is so.” 

“ I’m glad to hear you say that, because, you know, he 
took to me.” And he looked up in Grace’s face and 
smiled his sunniest smile. 

The lock gates opened slowly, making their wooden 
frame as usual for the river picture, and out came steam- 
launch and canoe together, side by side. Then a sad 
mischance happened. It was at Milton lock, it will be re- 
membered where the by-stream ran down to the river at mill- 
race speed. The great post just marked the road for the 
river craft, and on the other side of them the current seethed 
and boiled, as if mad to join in the headlong leap of the 
water. 

Just as Sinclair pushed off, the dog, unwilling as it 
seemed to lose his new friend, overbalanced himself, and 
fell into the water. Grace saw it and sprang up with a 
scream of horror, and everyone started up aghast to see 
what had happened. Poor Rip, though swimming his 
best against his fate, was violently carried by the stream 
between the posts ; and the next moment there was a great 
splash in the water and the canoe turned bottom upwards : 
Sinclair had jumped out of it after the dog. It was a 
generous impulse, but, to one who knew the river, seemed 
little short of the act of a madman. 

“ The weeds ! the weeds ! ” exclaimed Lord Cheribert 
at the top of his voice. “ There are weeds under the left 
bank ! ” 

If the swimmer heard he did not heed, for to the left 
bank the dog was being hurried, and after him he made. 
It was a most exciting, but, to those who had heard Lord 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


*39 

Cheribert’s story of that very place, a very distressing 
spectacle. The young fellow swam like a fish ; in half a 
dozen powerful strokes he had overtaken the little half- 
drowned creature, and, reversing the usual practice in such 
cases of emergency, the man had seized the dog’s neck 
with his teeth and held him up above the waves. As with 
his strange burden the young fellow turned about, with 
shining face, a shout of applause burst from all beholders. 
The next moment it died away, and was succeeded by a 
shudder of fear. Instead of swimming towards the weir 
where there was a landing-stage, as all expected, he made 
for the post and ring that stood in the centre of the by- 
stream ) and after a stroke or two, though he still moved 
his powerful arms, they perceived that he was not only 
making no progress but sinking lower in the water. The 
weeds, the presence of which had cut him off from the 
weir, had got him by the leg. It was a terrible moment. 
Agnes and Philippa hid their faces ; Grace, white as death, 
with parted lips and staring eyes looked on in speechless 
agony. Lord Cheribert kicked off his shoes. 

“ No, my lord,” whispered Roscoe, seizing his arm and 
holding it as in a vice, “you shall not: it would be 
certain death to you, and he is as good as dead already.” 

But Sinclair was not dead. With a last almost super- 
human effort he suddenly freed himself from the weeds, 
and, still with the dog in his mouth, reached the post, and 
seized the ring. Then the men cheered and the women 
wept. 

“ There’s not another man in England who could have 
done it,” exclaimed Lord Cheribert admiringly, “or who 
would not have let go of the dog.” 

The next moment the young fellow was sitting on the 
post with the deg in his arms. He took off his cap, which 
had somehow stuck to him throughout, and tossed it in 
the air. Every man burst out laughing, not so much at 
the absurdity of the spectacle as a relief to their feelings : 
in the laughter of the two elder ladies there was, however, 
much more of hysterics than mirth, and Grace did not 
laugh at all. She was greatly distressed and pained, but 
she took out her pocket-handkerchief, and waved it in 
reply to the young man’s salutation. The thunder of the 
weir made any verbal communication with him from any- 
body out of the question. 


140 


THE BURNT MILLION 


Then the lock-keeper put out in a punt attached to the 
bank by a long chain, and delivered the youth from his 
unpleasant situation, where he was sitting, however, quite 
at his ease. Rip half drowned, and a quarter frightened 
to death, was shivering in silence ; he had not a bark left 
in him. The lock-keeper would have taken the dog, but 
Sinclair kept hold of it, and, walking quietly down to the 
river side where the launch awaited him, was about to 
hand the animal to Lord Cheribert, as though returning 
some little article which he had picked up, when Grace 
interfered and held out her trembling hands. 

“ I am afraid he is rather wet/' said the young fellow, 
smiling. He was rather wet himself, but looked not a 
whit the worse for that. 

“ How very, very good and wrong of you ! ” she mur- 
mured earnestly, as, hugging her little favorite with one 
hand, she held out the other to him with a tearful smile ; 
she was what Philippa afterwards termed “ very much 
upset.” 

Then Agnes, perceiving her sister’s embarrassment, 
stepped forward and said, “You have done a very fine, 
but, I am obliged to add, a very foolish thing, sir ; to 
have saved our dog at the risk of your own life. I really 
don’t know what to say to you.” 

“ You can ask him to dinner,” observed Lord Cheribert 
sententiously. 

“ We shall be delighted to see you if you will come over 
to ‘ The Place ’ ; we dine at seven,” said Agnes gra- 
ciously. 

“ I am afraid I have no dinner dress” replied the young 
fellow ruefully. 

“ That is not of the least consequence,” observed the 
hostess. 

“ You must change that, at all events,” remarked his 
lordship, pointing to his dripping garments, “ or I shall 
dine in a mackintosh. Mr. Roscoe and I will call for you 
in half an hour.” 


THE BURNT MILLION 


141 


CHAPTER XX. 

WALTER SINCLAIR. 

Some people would have called Lord Cheribert’s conduct 
in proposing that Walter Sinclair should be invited to Elm 
Place little short of chivalrous ; when a young man is 
seeking the affections of a young woman, and has not yet 
obtained them, he is not generally so willing that she should 
cultivate an acquaintance with a possible rival. But the 
fact is that the idea of rivalship never entered into Lord 
Cheribert’s head. It is one of the advantages of being a 
lord that that position gives one a great sense of security. 
The young fellow was fully persuaded, though he had not 
yet succeeded in recommending himself to Grace as a 
suitor, that there was no one else who was preferred to 
him ; and it never struck him for a moment that Mr. 
Walter Sinclair should be preferred. He himself had a 
liking for the man, admired his good looks, his prominence 
in all athletic exercises, the pluck he had exhibited — and 
perhaps still more the recklessness — in saving the life of 
the little dog at the risk of his own ; but he never dreamed 
of him as a rival. There was no comparison between them. 
Plis own affairs, it is true, were in a very unprosperous 
condition. He had parted with half his patrimony in post- 
obits ; but still his father was a rich man and a peer, and 
he would one day stand in his shoes. Without being con- 
ceited he had considerable confidence — as indeed he had 
good reason to have — in his own personal attractions ; and 
if he had not made the way with Grace that he had hoped 
to make, he flattered himself that he had made some way j 
she was certainly interested in him ; her manner was always 
gracious to him, and sometimes confidential — even tender. 
He had too much the start of her new acquaintance to fear 
him, even if he should think of entering himself for the 
matrimonial stakes ; but no such notion occurred to him. 
He had no more chance than has a half-bred horse of win- 
ning the Derby. Sinclair, as he believed, and justly, had 


14 ^ 


7 BE BURNT MILLION. 


neither wealth nor position. His father had been, it was 
said, an unsuccessful merchant, and afterwards an adven- 
turer, who had not succeeded even in that line. Nay, 
Sinclair had been an adventurer himself (though not in a 
bad sense), and took no pains to conceal the fact. He 
talked quite frankly to his companions of the shifts — not 
dishonorable, but still very disagreeable shifts — he had 
been sometimes put to in the course of his wanderings ; 
and though he had gathered more moss than the rolling- 
stone is generally credited with, he had only just enough 
of it to make him comfortable. He had been living for 
some time in London without a profession, and had be- 
come accepted in boating circles, and that was about all 
that was known of him. There would have seemed no 
reason to Lord Cheribert, even had he thought about the 
matter, which he did not, for his character was singularly 
uncalculating, to object to the introduction of Mr. Walter 
Sinclair to Elm Place. There had been a time when the 
intrusion of a young gentleman with such antecedents into 
the family circle would have met with serious opposition 
from Mr. Roscoe ; but it was not so now. Even if he had 
entertained any apprehensions of one of the Miss Tremen- 
heres falling in love with him, he would have regarded the 
matter with philosophy, if not with satisfaction, provided 
only — and this did not seem probable — that the young man 
was not of the Jewish faith. His keen eye had perceived 
that the suit of the young lord was not progressing with 
Miss Grace ; perhaps the presence of a rival might quicken 
his attentions, or perhaps the other might prove more 
acceptable to the young lady. He had a liberal mind as 
to her disposal in matrimony, and, as the nearest friend of 
the family, would have “ given her away ” to anybody she 
fancied, or who fancied her, with a light (and lightened) 
heart. 

What was also in Mr. Sinclair’s favor, the two elder 
ladies — notwithstanding that it was their sister’s dog he 
had saved, and that he had shown to her a somewhat 
marked preference after that proceeding — were not one 
whit jealous of him. Perhaps, with a modesty rather 
unusual even with their modest sex, they both thought him 
too young for them. They did not appear to expect any 
particular attentions at his hands, nor in the least to grudge 
those he paid to Grace. 


THE BURNT MILLION, 


H3 

It was natural enough, at first at all events, that he 
should pay them to her. The service he had rendered 
to her, though indirect, was a personal one, and it, of 
course, evoked her thanks, and, what was more, her serious 
reproof. It was strange enough that to both these young 
men Grace should be placed, somehow, in the relation of 
a monitor ; but so it was ; and it put them in consequence 
on a certain familiar footing with her, which had she been 
a flirt she would have known how to use. The scolding of 
the young schoolmistress, though taken in good part, was 
not taken in the same way by her new friend as by her old 
one. She told him, as they were sitting on the lawn to- 
gether after dinner, what had happened at Milton Weir 
before to Lord Cheribert’s friend, and he drew a very 
serious face indeed. 

“ I had no idea of that,” he said ; “ the spectacle of my 
absurd proceedings (swimming with a dog in one’s mouth 
like something particularly foolish in heraldry) must have 
distressed you, I fear, from association.” 

“ It distressed me on your own account,” she answered ; 
“ you might have been drowned like the other poor young 
fellow.” 

“ I don’t suppose in my case it would have mattered very 
much to anyone,” was his quiet rejoinder. 

Here was another young man apparently without a 
mother or anybody else (except Grace) to take an interest 
in him ; some girls would have thought themselves in great 
luck. 

“ How can you talk so wickedly, Mr. Sinclair ! ” she 
replied indignantly. 

“Wickedly? Well, of course, I’m wicked enough,” he 
answered, not with a drawl, but with that quaint hesitancy 
that belongs to many of the citizens of the Great Republic, 
and which he had probably picked up from them. “ I 
didn’t say it might not have made some difference to me, 
but only that it would not have mattered to anyone else.” 

“ It would have mattered to your friends, I suppose,” 
she observed coldly. 

“Yes, true ; I suppose our fellows would have had to 
put off the match at Marlow next week, unless they could 
get another stroke.” 

“ You are a cynic, it seems, Mr. Sinclair.” 

“ Am I ? ” he smiled with evident satisfaction ; “ I am 
so glad to be something. I am always so puzzled when 


144 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


men say to me, ‘ What are you ? Soldier, sailor, tinker, 
tailor, gentleman, apothecary, ploughboy, thief? ’ I have 
been almost all of them except the last ; but just now I 
am nothing. In future, when that question is put to. me, 
I shall know what to say — ‘ My good sir, I am a cynic.’.” 

The serious earnestness of his tone was such that his 
speech had no suspicion of flippancy, and far less of im- 
pertinence. Grace smiled in spite of herself. 

“Iam afraid you are an idle man, sir.” 

“ No, I don’t admit that,” he answered gravely. “ I’ve 
worked — well, I don’t suppose any of my friends among the 
men yonder know what work is — but I may say harder 
than most. And though I am still a young man I feel for 
the present I have had enough of work. I am enjoying 
myself just now — very much,” he added, with pleasant 
significanc 

It was very difficult not to laugh at, or rather with, this 
young gentleman ; he possessed the soul of humor that is 
contagious. 

“ What I see now,” he continued, as if in explanation of 
his happy condition, and looking round at the others, who 
were engaged in mirthful conversation, “ is the first glimpse 
of home-life that has been vouchsafed to me for many a 
year.” 

To his unaccustomed eye the comfort and quiet of the 
scene, as well as the demeanor of the actors, all seemingly 
at their ease, might well have given the impression of home ; 
but to Grace, who by bitter and everyday experience knew 
how much of it was indeed acting, it seemed piteous that 
this brave and attractive young fellow should have rated it 
so high ; he must in truth, she thought, be without friends 
and belongings if the atmosphere of Elm Place had struck 
him as fragrant with the domestic virtues. 

“ I am glad that you are enjoying yourself,” she an- 
swered simply, “ but as to nobody caring whether you were 
drowned or not, I must say, in justice to Lord Cheribert, 
for one, that when he saw you were caught by those 
dreadful weeds, it was only by main force that he was 
restrained from jumping into the river and sharing what 
seemed to be your certain fate.” 

“Was that so? ” returned Sinclair, with a fine glow on 
his face. “ He may be assured that I shall not forget it. 
Lords must be made of better metal than folk on the other 
side of the Atlantic are apt to imagine.” 


THE BURNT MILLION 145 

“ This one at all events has a good deal of good about 
him, I think,” said Grace, with a grave smile. 

“ Really ? ” observed the young fellow, glancing at the 
subject of the conversation with an interest not unmingled 
with surprise. “ If you say so it doubtless must be so. 
And the Other gentleman,” he gravely added, “ is a good 
fellow too ? ” 

The question was indeed a strange one, and, as it hap- 
pened, even more embarrassing than it appeared to be ; 
yet the visitor had asked it with the same coolness as he 
might have used had he been inquiring the age of Rip, who, 
as though conscious of his late obligation, had ensconced 
himself — not a little to Lord Cheribert’s mortification — on 
the lap of the new-comer. 

“ Mr. Roscoe is a very old friend of our family,” replied 
Grace evasively. 

“ Really ? ” answered Sinclair, and again the word — 
evidently a favorite with him — had an intonation which 
seemed to suggest surprise. “ I am interested in him,” 
he went on more indifferently, because, when a boy, I 
once knew a man of the same name in Chicago.” 

“ Mr. Roscoe has a brother, I believe, in America. Do 
you see any resemblance in him to the gentleman you have 
in your mind? ” 

“ None whatever ; no, my man was very outspoken ; 
* No one’s enemy but his own,’ they said of him. Now 
this one, I should say, was of quite another sort.” 

“ It seems you are one of those gentlemen who pride 
themselves upon being a judge of character,” observed 
Grace, smiling. 

“ Well, yes, that is so. I don’t know much about books ; 
I have had little time, I am sorry to say, for reading ; but 
about human nature — for a young one — I do claim to 
know a little. As soldier, sailor, tinker, tailor, gentleman, 
apothecary and plowboy I have seen a good deal of it.” 

“ Then a friend of mine would say — and you seem to 
be in doubt about a profession — you ought to make a 
good lawyer.” 

“ No, no ; I particularly said that my callings did not 
include the whole of the proverbial list, but stopped at 
plowboy.” 

“ If you mean to imply that thief and lawyer are synony- 
mous, Mr. Sinclair,” put in Grace with severity, “ I must 

10 


146 


THE BURNT MILLION \ 


be excused from agreeing with you. The dearest friend I 
have now in the world, who is also the most honest of men, 
is a lawyer.” 

“Really?” repeated the young ’ fellow with ludicrous 
iteration. “ Well, let everyone speak as he finds. The 
lawyers have been a little hard on me, it must be con- 
fessed ! ” The speaker frowned mechanically as if at some 
remembrance of a wrong, and a harsh glitter came into his 
grey eyes, contrasting strangely with their usual softness. 

“ I should not have thought you were a person to bear 
malice,” observed Grace involuntarily. 

“ Well, no ; I hope not on my own account,” he an- 
swered slowly ; “ when I said the lawyers had been hard 
on me, I should have said on mine. My father always laid 
his ruin at the door of one of them. It is easier to forgive 
things done against oneself than against one’s father, is it 
not ? ” 

“ No doubt,” assented Grace with unconscious sym- 
pathy. “ Is it long,” she added, moved by the association 
of ideas, “ since you lost your father, Mr. Sinclair ? ” 

“ Yes,” he replied, in a grave, slow way ; “ I was but a 
boy when it happened. He was murdered by Indians.” 

“ Oh, how shocking ! ” ejaculated Grace. 

The sound of her voice a little raised attracted the atten- 
tion of the others, who were sitting in garden chairs only 
a few feet away, but still a sufficient space to prevent what 
the new-comer had said to her becoming public property. 

“ What is the matter ? ” exclaimed Lord Cheribert. 
“Not snakes, I do hope.” 

There were snakes on the wooded hill which the imagi- 
nation of his town-bred friends had gifted with the 
attributes of the cobra. 

“No, not snakes,” answered Sinclair, smiling (for the 
joke had a meaning for him, though of another kind). “ To 
a Western man it would have seemed nothing, but I am 
afraid I have alarmed Miss Grace with speaking of an 
incident of the frontier.” 

“ It is most extraordinary,” observed Philippa, “ how 
the gentlemen who do us the honour of visiting Elm Place 
will regale us with horrible tales.” 

“ Nevertheless, let us hear it,” said Mr. Roscoe ; “ I will 
try not to be very frightened.” 

“ No,” said Sinclair under his breath. 


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H7 


Perhaps it was only a mechanical utterance ; but Grace, 
who noticed that the young fellow had turned pale, took it 
as an appeal for her to direct the conversation into another 
channel. It was only reasonable, she thought, since it was 
her ejaculation which had called attention to them. What 
had fallen from him quite naturally in private talk, and 
after due introduction, he might well object to make the 
subject of public comment. 

“ I really think we have had enough of distressing inci- 
dents for to-day/’ she said. Then in a lighter tone, “ Mr. 
Sinclair tells me that he knew a gentleman in America 
of your name, Mr. Roscoe. I wonder if it was your 
brother ? ” 

Mr. Roscoe, who had been lounging in his basket-chair, 
very much at his ease, suddenly drew himself up. “ In- 
deed ? ” he said with an indifference that rather contrasted 
with that movement. “ It is not very likely, for Richard 
has not mingled with his fellow-countrymen for years.” 

“ I have not seen him for years,” said Sinclair quietly ; 
u but certainly his name was Richard. A tall man, rather 
loosely made, and of the same complexion as yourself, and 
a little older.” 

“ That seems to answer to what I remember of him,” 
said Mr. Roscoe, after a moment’s hesitation ; “ but he is 
younger than I.” 

“ That is possible,” returned the other thoughtfully. 

He was living a hard life — that, indeed, we all do out 
West,” he added hastily ; “ but his passion was hunting, 
which out there means shooting. I know of few men who 
could maintain themselves so well by their rifles when 
game was scarce.” 

“ Pie must be your orother, Mr. Roscoe,” exclaimed 
Lord Cheribert, laughing. “ These snorting instincts run 
in a family.” 

“ It is generally a misfortune for the family when they do 
so,” observed Mr. Roscoe, significantly. He was generally 
impervious to sarcasm, but on this occasion Lord Cheri- 
bert’s sally seemed to have hit on a tender place. 

“ It was a misfortune for me in this case,” continued Sin- 
clair, who understood, of course, the satire of neither 
speaker ; “ for it was Richard Roscoe who persuaded my 
poor father to go to the plains where he met with a miser- 
able end — npt that I blame your brother in the least, sir,” 


148 


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he added, gently. “ He was a very frank and fearless fellow, 
and, I am sure, a faithful friend.” 

A sigh of reminiscence (or perhaps of relief) here invol- 
untarily broke from Mr. Roscoe. * 

“ I hope you have heard no ill-news of your brother ? ” 
said the young man, earnestly. 

“ No ; not at all. He is in good health, and in the last 
letter I had from him expressed his intention of returning 
to England.” 

“ Indeed ? There is no man I wish more to see,” said 
Sinclair, eagerly. “ He would have sought me out himself 
could he have done so, I feel sure, though the tidings he 
had to give me I know only too well, save in their details.” 

“ How curious it all seems ! ” observed Philippa, break- 
ing the somewhat embarrassing silence ; “ how strange that 
Mr. Sinclair should be a friend of Mr. Roscoe’s brother 1 
How small the world is ! ” 

“ Not the New World,” observed the new-comer, gravely. 
“ Here in England we are accustomed to associate wide 
separation with the ocean. In America it is not so ; though 
on the same continent, those who wish to meet are often 
deterred from doing so by thousands of miles of land-travel. 
Even that, of course, can be surmounted by those who 
have long purses; but tho t has, unfortunately, not been 
the case with my friends. No one knows what poverty is 
who has not been in a strange land cut off from all who 
are near and dear to him by the want of a few hundred 
dollars.” 

Lord Cheribert and Grace involuntarily exchanged 
glances. “ You know what I told you ! ” his half-laughing 
look seemed to say, “ of the great convenience of ready 
money.” “ You know what I told you,” her grave eyes 
seemed to say, “ of the selfishness of those who lavish great 
possessions upon their pleasures, when so many souls as 
well as bodies are in actual need 1 ” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


*49 


CHAPTER XXI. 

A DIFFICULT POSITION. 

There was fine weather on the river that year, which 
makes all the difference — except to fishermen, who are in- 
different to the rain, or even like it — to those who live by 
the river. 

Elm Place was a very bower of delight so far as nature 
could make it so. Unfortunately, human nature occasion- 
ally stepped in and stained the radiance of the sky. 

Agnes and Philippa, for some reason which Grace could 
not comprehend, were at daggers drawn, or at all events 
very loosely sheathed. They no longer agreed even in 
abusing their dead father ; it was a topic not indeed ex- 
hausted, but, as it seemed, in abeyance. Mr. Roscoe was 
their only bond of union ; his personal influence was always 
exerted in favor of peace, but he had the greatest difficulty 
in enforcing it. They each appealed to him, against one 
another ; but Philippa the most urgently. “ Agnes’ con- 
duct, Edward,” she would say to him, “ is becoming intol- 
erable ; not an hour goes by in which she does not insult 
me by words or gesture.” 

“ How can you be so foolish ! ” he would reply contemp- 
tuously. “ What does it really matter? You can surely 
afford to bear with her infirmities.” 

“You speak of them as if they were natural weaknesses, 
the infirmities of age.” 

“ Well, perhaps they are,” he answered with a smile ; 
and neither the words nor the smile displeased her. “ You 
must be patient, Philippa ; you are not the only person 
who has to suffer. To quarrel with your sister just now 
would be your ruin. You can always quarrel, and there 
are other matters which are more pressing. It is most 
important to get Grace off our hands before anything else 
is done.” 

“ That is not so easy as you predicted. She likes Lord 
Cheribert, but not well enough to marry him. Her liking 
for him does not grow.” 


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* 5 ° 

“ Then let her take up with Sinclair.” 

“ Take up, indeed ! That shows the value you place on 
a woman’s love,” she exclaimed, bitterly. 

“Nay, nay, you know better 'than that,” he replied, 
softly. “ The phrase was a coarse one, I admit ; but 
seriously it seems to me that Grace is leaning towards this 
young fellow at an acuter angle, as it were, than she leaned 
to the other. So long as she falls into the arms of one of 
them, it is no matter which.” 

“ How hard you are, Edward ! I am sometimes tempted 
to think that everything is a matter of calculation with you ; 
that love is worth nothing in your eyes.” 

“ Not even a risk ? ” he put in, gravely. 

“I don’t say that,” she continued less vehemently. 
“ But it seems it is not worth a loss.” 

“A loss? You speak as if the matter were not one in 
my eyes in which love was in one scale and money in the 
other, and that the latter weighed down the former. You 
know that that is not the case, Philippa.” 

“ I know that I am a very miserable woman,” she an- 
swered, with a sob. 

“ How unreasonable you are ! ” he said, reprovingly ; “ it 
is not two months ago that, on a certain occasion, when 
your imprudence — nay, and mine, too, I confess it — was, 
you remember, almost the cause of our undoing ” 

“ Don’t speak of it,” she broke in, in terrified accents. 
“Remember it? Can I ever forget it?” 

“ And yet, to hear you now, one would think you had 
forgotten it. I say that when that happened you solemnly 
promised me it should be the last of our risks ; a lesson you 
would lay to heart, and never cease to remember ; that 
henceforth my motto should be ‘ Patience,’ and yours 
should be ‘ Trust.’ ” 

“ I do trust you,” she answered, in a voice half choked 
by tears, “ and in more ways than one, as you well know ; 
but I did think that when — when our circumstances altered 
there would be no need for patience.” 

“ So did I,” was the quiet rejoinder. “ Again you speak, 
Philippa, as if you were the only sufferer. I say I thought 
so too ; and who would not have thought so ? ” His face 
was white with passion, and he clenched his hands as 
though in recollection of some grievous wrong. “ We have 
been cruelly treated, you and I j but it cannot last for 


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151 

ever. If our freedom does not come by one way it will come 
by another. It is for that that I have been waiting ; though 
hitherto, it is true, the Fates have been against us. On 
Grace’s marriage, remember, we should have much more 
to work with.” 

“ More money ? What do we want of money ? ” she en- 
quired, passionately. “ I hate the very name of money.” 

lt Still it is a necessary evil,” he answered, drily. “ You 
do not wish your sister Agnes to inherit the whole of your 
father’s property, I suppose? You would not be obliged 
to her for the scraps she might throw to you out of her 
abundance. You would not like to be patronized by her as 
a poor relation.” 

“ I should not indeed,” she answered vehemently ; the 
fire in her eyes, the flush on her cheek, the impatient beat 
of her foot upon the ground, showed how little she would 
like it. 

“ Then let Trust and Patience be our mottoes fora little 
longer. Everything comes to them who wait.” 

Thus, time after time, did Edward Roscoe stave off the 
question, “ How long is this to last ? ” from Philippa Tre- 
menhere. It was a difficult task, but not so difficult as to 
answer the same inquiry from her elder sister. 

Agnes was far bolder than Philippa, because her posi- 
tion, as she thought, was assured. She could hardly call 
her a chit of a girl, but she regarded her absurd attach- 
ment for Mr. Roscoe much as if she were one. It was a 
mere foolish fancy, which one word of outspeaking on her 
own part would burst like the pricking of a bubble ; but 
unhappily it was impossible to speak it. 

“ I am sick and tired, Edward, of Philippa’s silly flutter- 
ing about you like a moth about a candle,” she would say, 
with angry impatience. 

“ And do you suppose I am not sick and tired of it 
too? ’’would be his bitter rejoinder. “You only suffer 
from it, remember, at second hand.” 

“ That is all nonsense,” she replied sharply ; “ a man 
never likes seeing a woman make a fool of herself for his 
sake ; but it drives the woman who loves him to distrac- 
tion.” 

“ I am ashamed to hear you say so, Agnes. You should 
have more self-restraint — I had almost said self-respect— 
if not for your sake for mine,” > j 


1$2 


THE BURNT MILLION 


“ It is for neither of our sakes, sir, that you use such 
arguments,” she answered hardly , 1 “ but merely for the 
desire of gain.” 

Agnes Tremenhere’s temper was naturally what is termed 
“ short,” and for the moment she had lost it ; otherwise 
she would hardly have ventured to utter such a home 
truth to the only man on earth of whom she stood in fear. 
The effect of it recalled her to her senses, though what she 
thought its consequence was far less serious than it really 
was. Mr. Roscoe turned his back upon her, not as she 
imagined in high offence, but to conceal the expression of 
unquenchable hate which he knew, despite his powers of 
self-control, his face would reveal to her. If he could have 
killed her by a look he would have looked at her. Nothing, 
save that it was a quotation from Shakspeare, could excuse 
the hiss that hissed through his teeth, “ Hell cat ! ” For- 
tunately it was uttered as “ an aside,” but the involuntary 
movement of the muscles of his back — the unmistakable 
index of extreme fear or rage — did not escape her 
attention. 

“ I did not mean that, Edward,” she exclaimed hurriedly : 
“ I did not know what I was saying.” 

“ I hope not,” was the pained reply. He had turned 
round now, and was regarding her with reproachful amaze- 
ment, such as some domestic pet, unconscious of wrong- 
doing, might exhibit when struck by its mistress. 

“ Heaven forbid that I should grudge you,” she con- 
tinued tenderly, “whatever you may need in that way! 
But you set too great a store on it. What is wealth com- 
pared with happiness ! ” 

“True, but why should it not be combined with happi- 
ness ? ” he replied persuasively. “ There are few men 
worthy of you, Agnes ; there is no man, deserving to be 
called a man, who for the sake of such happiness as you 
speak of would be your ruin.” 

“ It is not a question of ruin,” she answered doggedly. 
She had come to herself as quickly as he had come to what 
he wished her to believe was himself. 

“ It is a question, however, of whether you should reck- 
lessly give up a huge fortune to swell that which Philippa 
already possesses. We must have patience, Agnes.” 

“ That is a text from which you are always preaching \ 
you promised me that at a certain time there should be an 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


153 

end of that sermon ; and the time is passed, and still I 
find you preaching.” 

“ Because the tree does not bring forth its expected fruit, 
that is no reason why we should curse the tree. I mean 
you to have what in common justice should be your own, 
but it cannot be done in a day. If I did what you wish 
you would not thank me for it, though you think you would. 
How would you endure to live on a few hundreds a year, 
while Philippa had her tens of thousands ? ” 

“ She would not be happy,” she answered gravely. 

“Yes, that is the key of it all,” he replied contemp- 
tuously. “ You wish me to sell your rightful inheritance for 
a mess of pottage — the satisfaction of contemplating the 
humiliation and disappointment of your sister. You may 
see that yet, but it must be from a standpoint above her 
and not below. I must be allowed to have a clearer view 
of this matter than you, Agnes ; I am not blinded by 
prejudice.” 

“ So it seems,” she replied bitterly. 

“ Thank you. I hope that is another of the things 
which you say without knowing what you say. It is idle 
to argue with you while you are in this state. Let us go 
in.” They were walking on what was called “ the camp 
shed ” — the terrace paved with wood, at the foot of the 
lawn, and overhanging the river. He made a movement 
as though he would go up to the house, but she clutched 
his arm. 

“ Stay — I am ready to listen to reason. What would 
you have me do ? ” 

“ Have patience. That is all that is left for us both, 
for the present. Time is on our side, and fighting in our 
favor. Grace is falling in love with Walter Sinclair.” 

“ It is very foolish of her : Lord Cheribert would be far 
the better match.” 

“No doubt; but women are foolish. However, so far 
as we are concerned, the one is as good as the other. She 
has the same contempt foe riches that you have persuaded 
yourself you entertain ; but in her case it is genuine. She 
will marry, and perhaps be happy on a little, while we reap 
the fruits of her moderation. That will be one obstacle 
removed from our path,” 

“ And Philippa ? ” 

“ Well, of course that will be more difficult. If it were 
anyone else I should propose a compromise,” 


>54 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


“ 1 don’t understand you.” She spoke with something 
more than gravity; with all her faults Agnes Tremenhere 
was an honest woman, and though she professed to be igno- 
rant of his meaning it was not so. 

“ Do you think that I propose to rob your sister?” he 
returned, sharply. The flush upon his cheek was genuine 
enough, but it was not caused by virtuous indignation, as 
she imagined ; he was furious at her scruples, or rather at 
his having proposed to her a shameful course of action 
which it was now clear to him she would have nothing to 
do with ; he had almost shown his hand to her in vain. 

She was frightened at his vehemence, as he had intended 
her to be ; but she was still in doubt — as she well might 
be — as to the motive of the compromise, since it seemed 
it was not a proposal to obtain money under false 
pretences. 

“ What I was going to say was, that if circumstances had 
been different it would have been possible for you all three 
to have combined together to make the iniquitous provi- 
sions of your father’s will null and void. There would 
have been no harm in that, I suppose. Justice, if not law, 
would have been on our side in a plan, for instance, where- 
by you all three married and yet by mutual agreement 
kept your own.” 

' “ She nodded in acquiescence ; then added, with a sigh, 
“ But then there is Philippa.” 

“Just so: with her — as I was about to say when you 
interrupted me so very unnecessarily — no compromise is 
possible.” 

“It is most shameful that it should be so,” exclaimed 
Agnes, passionately. 

“Still so it is. Heaven is my witness that I don’t care 
two straws about her ; but I own that I am afraid of her. 
A jealous woman — whether she has any right to be so or 
not — is a very dangerous enemy.” 

Who looked at Agnes Tremenhere at that moment could 
have no doubt of the fact. Her freckled face was livid, 
her lips white, with jealous hate. 

“ Let the shameful creature do her worst ! ” she cried. 

“ By all means; but not to us” he answered, quietly. 
“ She will find me a match for her, in one sense at all 
events. Listen to me. When Grace is married, it is 
probable that things will be even worse at home than they 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


*55 


are ; it is one of those cases where things must be worse 
before they are better. Philippa and you will have to 
part.” 

She looked up at him with a glow of joy. “ I see ; but 
not you and I, Edward ? ” 

“ Or, if we do, it will only be for a little time, and in 
order to be united for ever. What we must do is to per- 
suade Mrs. Linden to take her.” 

“She will never do that; you will have to get Philippa’s 
consent to go to her. They hate one another.” 

“ You leave that to me,” he answered, confidently, tak- 
ing her hand in his and tenderly stroking it. 

“They will see us from the house,” she murmured, ap- 
prehensively, but without withdrawing her hand. His 
touch was delightful to her ; it had the soothing charm of 
the “ pass ” of the mesmerist ; and it was so very, very sel- 
dom that he allowed himself even so small a privilege. 

“ Let them,” he answered, defiantly. Then, dropping 
her fingers, with a sigh, he added, “ No ; you are right, 
Agnes ; we cannot be too prudent. I have a plan in my 
head, but it must ripen. In the meantime, encourage Sin- 
clair, if you think he is the surest card to play. He is a 
fisherman ; ask him to come up to Cumberland next month 
and try the Rill.” 

“But Lord Cheribert tells me he is coming.” 

“ No matter ; let them both come. Perhaps Philippa 
will take the rejected one,” and he laughed softly. 

But Agnes gave no answering smile ; it was a subject 
that had no touch of humor for her, though she liked his 
laughing. 

“ We must keep her in good humor as well as we can,” 
he went on, cheerfully ; “ you must not mind my being 
civil to her. It will be all the worse for her in the end.” 

That was naturally a subject for congratulation, but 
Agnes Tremenhere’s face did not display it; she did not 
like the prospect of those occasional civilities. 

“When you talk to me, Edward,” she said, piteously, 
“ I always feel for the time persuaded ; but when you are 
not talking to me — and, above all, when you are talking to 
her — I am a very miserable woman. I can’t bear it much 
longer ; I can’t, indeed.” 

“ Much longer it will not be necessary to bear it, Agnes,” 
he answered, gravely ; “ once more I say to you, have pa- 


i 5 6 


THE BURNT MILLION 


ticnce. It is five o’clock ; they are all coming down from 
the hill yonder. Go in and make the tea.” 

She left him, and he entered an arbor at the extremity 
of the camp shed and sat down. His face was pale, and 
the dew stood upon his forehead. He had had a very try- 
ing time with her, but that was not the reason of his emo- 
tion, or why he trembled in every limb. Nor was it the 
plan he had told her he was devising for ridding them of 
Philippa ; for, in truth, he had had no plan : that was but 
a device for gaining time. It was only a thought that had 
crossed his mind during his late interview — at the moment 
when he had turned his back upon his companion — and 
which now that he was left alone came back to him ; but it 
was a very terrible thought, born of hate and rage, and 
nourished by disappointment and despair ; it shook his 
very soul within him. 

He lit a cigar, but the gentle weed brought none of its 
wonted dreams and oblivious consolations ; if it brought 
dreams at all they were nightmares, and made his own 
society so intolerable that after a whiff or two he flung the 
cigar into the river, and sought the society of his fellow- 
creatures, in order to forget them. But he did not forget 
them even then ; the dreadful thought which had moved 
him so was an unbidden guest at that five o’clock tea. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

A HANDSOME OFFER. 

When people have nothing serious to do love-making goes 
on apace, which is one of the reasons why idle folks are 
always getting into mischief. Lord Cheribert, as it will 
have been concluded, was already deeply smitten by 
Grace, and though Walter Sinclair had started so long 
behind him he had made up for lost time, and was soon as 
much in love as he. The difference of social position, 
which, though he did not acknowledge it to himself, made 
the young lord so easy in his mind as regarded his pos- 
sible rival, did not afflict Walter one whit. In this respect 
his very deficiencies were to his advantage ; he was 
naturally far from conceited, but the manner of his bring- 


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157 


ing up, and the unconventional life he had led, prevented 
his recognizing his inferiority. 

In his view one man was as good as another until the other 
had shown himself the better man. In the part of the world 
where he had been living rank had not been much thought 
of, for the simple reason that it did not exist ; and wealth, 
though more highly considered (for what it procured, not 
for itself), was transitory. A man made his pile in a few 
months, and often lost it again in the same number of 
hours. Lord Cheriberts, without the Lord, he had often 
met with, who were ready to lay their bottom dollar, or 
their top one, upon any event, so that that side of the 
young nobleman’s character was quite intelligible to him. 

He looked upon it with great charity, but also some 
contempt, and thought it a pity so good a fellow should 
have made such a fool of himself. For as to other matters 
he admired'him, though he could scarcely say for what. 
It was the first time he had experienced, in a man, the 
charm of manner, and he was attracted by it none the less 
because it showed itself in a rival. In that respect he at 
once admitted the other’s superiority, but in that alone. 

In his relations with Grace, though he did not conceal 
from himself that he loved her, his position was entirely 
’different ; he was humility itself; and this also was more 
owing to his upbringing than to his nature, which was one 
of practical copimon-sense. In the wild West, 'and even 
in the West where it is not so wild, there is an admiration 
for the female more in proportion to her rarity than her 
deserts ; the most commonplace girl is a heroine, and 
women of the earth earthly, are reckoned goddesses. 
The mistake is highly creditable to a community in which 
tenderness and refinement are not the leading features, 
and, though in individual cases it is sometimes disastrous, 
has ' on the whole a civilizing effect. Moreover, what is 
very curious, though it makes rough men gentle in their 
relations with the other sex it does not make them shy. 
The knowledge, perhaps, that they may be called upon at 
any moment to act as her protector — a term in the Old 
World which has, alas ! changed its meaning — induces a 
certain familiarity, which has at the same time no tinge of 
disrespect. No one could accuse Walter Sinclair of shy- 
ness ; he had a perfect self-possession that Mr. Roscoe 
mistook for “ cheek,” but the ladies well understood was 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


15B 

nothing of the kind ; he showed it when conversing with 
Grace, as with anybody else, but his respect for her was 
reverential. There was nothing to be found fault with in 
Lord Cheribert as to that matter (and considering what 
his upbringing had been, it was proof indeed of his honest 
nature) ; but the difference between them in this respect 
was very great. Where the young nobleman felt his un- 
worthiness was in his fallen fortunes, or at deepest in the 
folly that had ruined them ; whereas Sinclair bowed before 
her as to a shrine of Purity, which he trembled to approach 
even with his shoes off. Women in England are slow to 
understand this position of affairs, nor is it of much con- 
sequence, since it so seldom takes place. The two young 
fellows became great friends, but we may be sure they 
never talked of these matters. 

The Miss Tremenheres had almost come to an end of 
their tenantry at Elm Place when Mr. Allerton paid them 
a visit ; it was natural enough that he should do so, since 
he would have no other opportunity, as they were not to 
return to town before going to Cumberland ; but as a 
matter of fact, this was only the secondary object of his 
coming. He wanted to see Lord Cheribert on business 
matters, and he was much pleased, and not at all surprised, 
to find him where he was. The gentlemen of course all 
lodged at Milton, but they boarded over the way. The 
lawyer smiled when he discovered how very much at home 
the young nobleman made himself there, and was not at 
all alarmed at finding Sinclair doing the like. He took 
his lordship’s view as regarded any danger to be appre- 
hended from him as a possible rival in Grace’s affections, 
only more so. 

To a family solicitor, above all other people in the 
world, the claims of birth and wealth (for the two must be 
combined ; it is no use your being descended from Hen- 
gist if you have but 300/. a year) seem overwhelming even 
in courtship. The ladies who are his clients, however 
young and innocent they may be of the world’s ways, have 
generally an instinct for eligibility. They may fall in love, 
and even at first sight, like Mary Jones and Jemima Anne, 
but not without having some previous knowledge of the 
position and property of their enslaver. The majority of 
these possible heroes are out of the question before they 
can make their first observation about Ascot or Mr. Irving. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


*59 


A certain atmosphere, not necessarily of property but of 
appropriateness, surrounds the person of such heiresses as 
divinity is said to hedge a king. Cases have been known, 
of course, where the merest adventurers have broken 
through it and carried off their prize, but the incident is 
rare ; moreover, though the character of Walter Sinclair 
was by no means easy for a man like Mr. Allerton to read, 
it was clear to him that he was no adventurer, at all events 
in the ordinary sense. He had no swagger, no pretence 
of any kind ; he was not particularly polite ; he looked you 
straight in the face when he spoke to you, and when he 
spoke of his belongings he was anything but boastful. 
His father, to judge by his own account of him, had been 
far from prosperous ; beyond that point in his genealogy, 
either from charity or want of knowledge, he forebore to 
speak ; and it was the lawyer’s experience that your 
adventurer can never avoid references to his grandfather. 
Moreover, Sinclair referred to his own past as having been 
neither successful nor satisfactory, which in a young 
gentleman who, at five-and-twenty years of age, appar- 
ently made enough money to live upon for the rest of 
his days, was certainly a proof of modesty. 

Still Mr. Allerton gave more attention to the young 
fellow than he would have done had he met him only in 
male society, and what he saw of him he liked, with one 
exception. He did not like the respect he showed to Mr. 
Edward Roscoe. The lawyer, of course, was prejudiced 
against that gentleman ; but even allowing for that, it was 
certainly strange that an honest young fellow, such as Sin- 
clair appeared to be, and also of great independence of 
character, should take to him at all. At first, indeed, this 
circumstance awoke grave suspicions in Mr. Allerton. He 
knew that Roscoe wanted Grace to marry; and if she 
could be married to some creature of his own instead of 
Lord Cheribert, who was now altogether removed from 
his influence, it would obviously be to his advantage; 
moreover, he thought he detected a willingness on the part 
of Roscoe to play into Sinclair’s hands. If there was 
really any agreement, tacit or otherwise, between the two 
men, it would be a very serious matter. This unworthy 
suspicion, it is only due to the lawyer’s honest heart, as 
well as to his sagacity, to say, did not last long ; and 
though the problem why Sinclair was so civil to Roscoe 
still puzzled him, it ceased tp have much importance. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


160 

Lord Cheribert’s affairs were at all events much more 
pressing. It is a drawback to the advantage of a man of 
financial genius like the latfe Mr. Joseph Tremenhere, or at 
all events to the advantage of his clients, that his excessive 
skill in the management of affairs, and the self-confidence 
born of it, causes him to take every thread in his own 
hands, and trust little or nothing to others ; this works 
well enough while he is alive, to hold the threads — and 
therefore answers his purpose with sufficient completeness 
— but when he dies his multifarious operations often pre- 
sent a tangled web to those who come after him. 

The knots by which Josh had secured his own interests 
were neat enough, but the ramifications of his clients’ 
affairs were numerous and intricate. In Lord Cheribert’s 
case they were particularly so, because of his own reckless- 
ness and contempt for business transactions. It is distress- 
ing to a lawyer when he asks a client in whom he feels a 
personal interest, “ Is this your signature, my lord ? ” to 
be answered, “ It looks like it, but I have not the faintest 
remembrance of ever having put it there.” 

Lord Cheribert had no recollection of any debt that 
wasn’t a bet, which greatly impeded the settlement of his 
affairs. Sundry creditors were pressing him with their 
little accounts, and showing a strong disinclination to “ let 
them run,” even to the date when, as all the world now 
knew, Lord Morelia was to come forward and show that a 
father had his duties as well as his privileges. In the 
aggregate these debts came to a large sum, though they 
sank into almost insignificance compared with the obliga- 
tions due to the Tremenhere estate ; those, however, we 
may be sure, were well secured, and the family could well 
afford to wait ; the family, indeed, knew nothing about 
them; it was not thought necessary by Mr. Allerton to go 
into such details with the ladies, and Mr. Roscoe, though 
of course he knew all about them, had likewise abstained 
from communicating them. It was quite sufficient for the 
purposes of both those gentlemen that Lord Cheribert 
should know the facts. 

It would no doubt have distressed the ladies to feel that 
their guest was their debtor, and would have made their 
relations with him not a little embarrassing ; whereas it 
was the lawyer’s secret hope that his client would see for 
himself how extremely convenient it would be to pay off 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


161 

3 3}i per cent, of his obligation by a matrimonial union 
with one of the fair creditors ; if he had thought of it the 
probability is, the effect would have been exactly the reverse 
of what was intended ; but, as a matter of fact, the cir- 
cumstance never occurred to him ; Lord Cheribert never 
thought of his creditors. 

Some of them, however, as has been said, thought a good 
deal of him (though not in an appreciatory sense), and 
were making themselves very unpleasant. Lord Morelia 
could have stopped them with a word, but that word he 
would not speak till his son had given up his evil ways for 
good and all. He had promised to do so, as we know, at 
a certain date ; blit until that day arrived his father declined 
to have anything to do with him. His paternal affection 
was ready laid, like a housemaid’s fire, but he positively 
declined to apply the match to it till after the 14th proximo, 
when his son’s last steeplechase was to come off. The 
earl had an immense reputation for “ determination of 
character,” and it was inherited by his son and heir, 
though in him he described it as the obstinacy of a pig. 
He would not advance a shilling to help him, nor permit 
his lawyer to advance one ; and, on the other hand, the 
young man would not pay forfeit for the race in question, 
though the old lord would have gladly laid down the 
money twenty times over. Matters had come, in short, to 
a deadlock, and the worst of it was that the circumstances 
greatly militated against the genuineness of the promised 
reconciliation between father and son : you can’t holdover 
affection like an accommodation bill, nor postpone filial, 
love to a particular date in the calendar ; they are apt to 
grow cool in the meantime. 

The lawyer had at least as much tact as members of his 
profession usually possess, and had endeavored to conciliate 
both sides — though he would have much preferred to 
knock their heads together — but his efforts were in vain ; 
he began to fear that a public scandal could hardly be 
averted, and if that took place Lord Cheribert’s chance 
with Grace would be seriously endangered ; it was difficult 
to hint to him of this peril, and if it had been done he 
would probably have thought little of it, he was himself so 
used to public scandals. 

On the matter of his debts, indeed, he was — with men — 
entirely without reticence, and he not a little disconcerted 

11 


THE BURNT MILLION 


162 

the good lawyer by speaking of them in the smoking-room 
at Elm Place with his usual frankness. 

“ What does it matter?”* he said, when reproached by 
Mr. Allerton for his imprudence. “ You know all about 
them, Roscoe knows all about them ; and to Sinclair, who, 
though an excellent fellow himself, has probably been 
witness to half the crimes in the calendar and some out- 
side it, the fact of a man’s being in a hole as regards 
money matters can appear nothing very serious. Any talk 
of that kind must be to him like a description of a day 
with the rabbits on the hill to a tiger-hunt ; there is not 
enough sport in it to attract his attention.” 

The lawyer smiled ; he was much too wise to press the 
point, or any point that was not absolutely essential, on 
“ such a cat-a-mountain of a client ” ; but he thought it 
possible that the financial embarrassments of Lord Cheri- 
bert might have some attraction for Mr. Sinclair notwith- 
standing their want of dramatic interest. Nor, as it turned 
out, was he mistaken. 

On the morning after the conversation in the smoking- 
room, Mr. Allerton, who was an early riser, found Sinclair 
on the lawn at Milton before breakfast, with a short black- 
pipe in his mouth of the most reprehensible appearance. 

“ It’s a bad habit, I know,” said that young gentleman, 
noting the look which the lawyer bestowed upon his clay 
idol, “but our fellows breakfast late here, and there’s 
nothing like tobacco for staying the appetite.” 

“ So I should think,” returned the lawyer drily ; “ if I 
was to smoke a pipe before breakfast, I should never eat 
anything all day.” 

“It does not interfere in that way with me at all, as 
you will see at breakfast-time,” answered the young fellow, 
laughing, “ and there have been days when want of 
appetite was not so much my difficulty as the want of any- 
thing to eat ; then a pipe is a boon indeed.” 

“ Things have been as bad as that with you, have they ? ” 
replied the lawyer ; he rather liked his new acquaintance 
(save for that inexplicable civility of his to Roscoe), and 
was not unwilling to hear something of his past ; it might 
come under the head of useful knowledge. 

“ Yes ; one does not always get fresh eggs in the morning 
out West, and claret-cup ” — he pointed to the place across 
the river where that compound was exceedingly well made, 
as they both knew — “is unknown at the diggings.” 


THE BURNT MILLION 163 

“ At the diggings ? You were there, were you ? I hope 
you made your pile.” 

“ I don’t look like that, do I ? I hope not.” 

The other did not understand what he meant, but saw 
no necessity to inquire ; he was not in search of sentiments 
but facts. Experience had taught him not to interrupt 
when his object was to obtain information. You may 
generally trust a man who is talking about himself to pro- 
ceed with that interesting subject. 

“ Yes, I was the man who first found gold at One Tree 
Hill.” 

The lawyer nodded, as if he was as conversant with that 
locality as with Shooter’s Hill or Primrose Hill. 

“ There were three of us,” continued the young fellow, 
in a tone of a reminiscence, and with that far-off look in 
his eyes which the ladies had noticed ; “ we had but ten 
dollars amongst us, but it was not a place to spend much 
money in ; not a hut within ten miles, and the nearest 
drinking-bar a long day’s journey from us. I wish to 
heaven,” he added with vehemence, “ it had been further 
still.” 

He paused ; an observation seemed to be expected. 

“ Drink must be a great temptation in those out-of-the- 
way places,” hazarded the lawyer. 

“ Not to me, sir,” was the haughty rejoinder. “ There 
is no man living who has ever seen Walter Sinclair drunk.” 
Had Lord Cheribert been present it is possible he would 
have suggested that there might be more reasons than one 
for that ; there was a certain solemnity in the young man’s 
assertion that might well have provoked raillery ; but it 
did not do so with Mr. Allerton. He understood that the 
conditions of existence of which the other was speaking 
were very different from his present ones, and that his 
boast was not only genuine but had a justification. “ How- 
ever, better men than I have given way to liquor,” con- 
tinued Sinclair modestly, “ and it is easy to resist what 
has no attractions for one.” 

“ It must be a great experience, that first finding of 
gold,” remarked the lawyer tentatively, like a huntsman 
casting for the scent. 

The young man nodded assentingly. “ Yes. For the 
moment it appears as if one had found everything. To 
penniless men like us it seemed like heaven itself. The 


6 4 


THE BURNT MILLION 


first nugget might be the last, of course, but it might also be 
wealth beyond the dreams of avarice. Some men think of 
the gold itself ; others, of what they will do with it. I had 
at that time a use for wealth, and my discovery filled me 
with delirious joy. Our first act was to solemnly swear 
that we would keep the matter secret from our fellow- 
creatures. We worked like galley-slaves, but for a rate of 
pay that would have satisfied a prime minister. We had 
hit on a very rich lode. On the fourth day one of the 
two men who were prospecting with me disappeared. 
The other when he missed him uttered the most frantic 
execrations. “What is the matter? ” I said. “Why 
should Dick have come to harm ? ” “ Harm ! ” he answered, 
“ I wish he had a bullet through his brain ! He will bring 
harm to us. The mad fool is off to the drinking-bar.” 
“But he will come back again, I suppose? ” “Yes, but 
with five thousand men to rob us of our rights.” He 
judged only too well. The doting wretch, having money 
in his pocket, or the equivalent of it, could not resist the 
demon for a dram ; once in liquor, he began, of course, 
to boast of the new gold-diggings, and the morning of the 
third day saw a cloud of miners coming like locusts over 
the hill. They behaved fairly enough, and gave us the 
first choice of claim as discoverers. We elected to stay 
on our patch, and in a fortnight there was not another 
ounce of gold to be got in it, though we worked as hard 
as ever. Other men were more lucky, and made great 
fortunes ; nor, indeed, .had I any right to complain, since 
in that one month I made enough to keep me, I hope, and 
something over, for the remainder of my days.” 

A golden month, indeed,” observed the lawyer. 

“ Yet the vilest one man ever passed,” answered the 
other vehemently. “ Greed is unpleasant enough to look 
upon in any shape, but as you see it naked and unashamed 
in a gold-field it is loathsome indeed. I should not have 
troubled you with such a story at all, Mr. Allerton, but for 
a reason ; if it had not been told, you might have said to 
yourself, ‘ This rolling-stone has probably gathered no 
moss/ and you would have been disinclined to believe in 
my solvency.” 

“ Why should you say that ? ” said the lawyer, smiling. 
He meant of course to be complimentary ; to imply that 
no suspicion of his companion’s want of means had ever 


THE BURNT MILLION. 165 

entered his mind ; but the other took him au pied de la 
lettre. 

“Well, for this reason. I was obliged to overhear 
Lord Cheribert’s talk last night about his private affairs. 
It seems there is some hitch about the immediate settlement 
of certain debts, which may cause him some embarrass- 
ment ; I don’t understand the matter, but I wish to say 
that 5000/. or so of what I possess is ready to my hand, 
and very much at his service.” 

“ Do I understand that you offer to lend Lord Cheri- 
bert 5,000/. on his note of hand?” 

“ Certainly ; or without it.” 

It was a matter of professional principle with Mr. 
Allerton never to be surprised at anything, but this pro- 
position fairly staggered him. It was evident that the 
man who made it was no fool, and must therefore very 
well comprehend that his proposition if carried into effect 
would do away with the one advantage he possessed over 
his rival (if such, as the lawyer suspected, Lord Cheribert 
was) in being free from financial embarrassment ; nay, he 
must be aware, from what had passed in the smoking-room, 
that the existence of these debts of his lordship’s threat- 
ened him with public exposure, which must be prejudicial 
indeed to any matrimonial project. Yet here was this 
young fellow actually offering to supply his rival with the 
sinews of war — and love. As a matter of fact, the offer 
could not be accepted, and would be utterly insufficient if 
it was. Mr. Allerton. of course, could have raised any 
amount of money to supply the young lord’s temporary 
needs ; but this Lord Morelia had positively forbidden 
him to do. 

The young lord could not raise the sum required on his 
own security, and his father hoped to use his helplessness 
as a lever to effect his own object, namely, Lord Cheribert’s 
immediate retirement from the turf. To have taken 
Sinclair’s money (even had it been sufficient) would have 
been to break his word to the old lord, which Mr. Allerton 
was incapable of doing ; but nothing of this was, of course, 
known to Sinclair, and the thought of the young man’s 
unselfish generosity moved the old lawyer very much. 

“ You are a capital fellow, Sinclair,” he exclaimed, “ and 
I thank you five thousand times on behalf of my young 
friend and client ; but your offer, liberal as it is, is useless 


THE BURNT MILLION . 


1 66 

to him ; I am sorry and ashamed to say it would be a 
mere drop in the ocean.” 

“ I am sorry,” observed the other gravely. “ Perhaps 
I ought to have known as much. I hope,” he added, with 
a quick flush, “ that you do not think I did know it, Mr. 
Allerton ? ” 

“ I am quite sure you did not. Your offer, I am con- 
vinced, was as genuine as it was generous. Will you 
gratify a curiosity that is not mere inquisitiveness and tell 
me why you made it ? ” 

“ Well, it is hardly worth talking about, and especially 
since it has come to nothing ; but the fact is, even if I had 
been so fortunate as to help Lord Cheribert out of a tight 
place, the obligation would still have been on my side. 
When I was in a tight place in trouble with the weeds 
down yonder ” — and he pointed over his shoulder in the 
direction of Milton lasher — “ it was all they could do, I 
have been told, to prevent Lord Cheribert coming to 
drown with me. He did kick off his shoes to do it. One 
doesn’t forget a thing like that, you know.” 

“ But you had done the same, it seems, for a dog?” 

“ I ? That was very different. I was used to taking 
my life in my hand, as a thing not especially valuable. 
Don’t mistake me for one of the mock-modest ones ; I 
think myself every bit as good as his lordship, or any 
other lord in the land. But that is not his view, I reckon. 
Here was a young fellow who thought a huge lot of him- 
self, and of whom other people thought more, ready to 
fling his all away on the off-chance of saving a mere loafer, 
a nobody — of course you will not tell him one word of 
this.” 

“ Of course not : here’s my hand upon it. And now, 
Mr. Sinclair, if I have not exhausted your patience, just 
one question more. What is the obligation that binds 
you to Mr. Roscoe ? He didn’t kick off his shoes, I’ll 
be sworn.” 

“I am under no obligation to Mr. Roscoe.” 

“ No, but you think you are ; at all events you behave 
as if you were. Come : you must not be angry with an old 
fellow who has nothing but your good at heart, or what 
will weigh with you more, the good of another whom you 
esteem, I think. I say again it is not mere inquisitiveness 
that makes me put the question. Why do you pay such 
deference to Mr. Roscoe ? ” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


167 


“ He not being one of my own sort at all, as you would 
seem to say," returned the young man, smiling. '* Well, 
I don’t know that he is. But he has a brother — Dick — 
who was one of the firmest friends (though not a very 
lucky one) that my poor father ever had ; and for his sake 
I can’t help leaning toward Mr. Edward perhaps a trifle 
more than he deserves — Dick is coming home this autumn, 
I am glad to hear.” 

“ Indeed ? ” was the dry rejoinder. “ Well, in the mean- 
time, my dear Mr. Sinclair, take my advice, and when lean- 
ing towards Mr. Edward be very careful not to lean on 
him, for he’s not the kind of prop that stands a strain. 
Come, let us go in to breakfast.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

GOOD ADVICE. 

It was curious, since Walter Sinclair was but a chance 
visitor of the Tremenheres, with whom their acquaintance 
would probably not at most outlast their occupancy of Elm 
Place, that Mr. Allerton should have troubled himself to 
give that word of warning to the young fellow. His motives 
for so doing were mixed, and perhaps not recognized 
even by himself. He had not only a well-grounded dis- 
trust but a very cordial dislike of Mr. Roscoe, which would 
have prompted him to set anyone on his guard whom he 
perceived to be subject to that gentleman’s influence. 
But he had also begun to entertain a liking for Sinclair, 
almost in despite of himself. Home-trained young gentle- 
men who, instead of becoming clerks to respectable solici- 
tors, or embracing other decent professions in their own 
country, emigrated to uncivilized climes and tried their 
luck in gold-fields, were not, as a rule, at all to his taste. 
He had, as we know, even entertained the suspicion that 
this young man had been a creature of Roscoe himself, 
and at all events felt it to be a mistake that a person of his 
condition had been allowed to attain a familiar footing with 
such a family as the Tremenheres. Now he certainly 
thought differently upon these points. There was a frank- 
ness about the young man that disarmed his doubts j and 


THE BURNT MILLION . 


1 68 

an independence of character that no longer seemed to him 
the impudence of the adventurer. 

The generosity of his late offer was something altogether 
out of the lawyer’s experience, and made a deep impres- 
sion on him. For a moment it had struck him that though 
Sinclair had imposed silence about it to Lord Cheribert he 
might not have been as unwilling for Grace to hear of it ; 
but that he dismissed from his mind as an unworthy sus- 
picion. He felt that Sinclair was incapable of such a 
method of recommending himself ; while at the same time 
the action convinced him that he had no serious intention 
of becoming her suitor ; it would in that case have been 
putting weapons into the hand of an adversary which 
neither gratitude nor chivalry demanded — a mere Quixotic 
act. Assured, therefore, that there was no danger of that 
kind to be apprehended, Mr. Allerton allowed his liking 
for the young fellow to have free course. He praised him 
to Grace, and he praised him to Lord Cheribert, and was 
pleased to find that they shared his good opinion of him. 

With the elder Miss Tremenheres Sinclair also appeared 
to be a favorite ; Mr. Roscoe — but this was not placed to 
the credit side of the young man’s account — treated him 
with marked civility. To any outsider, indeed, like 
Sinclair himself, who knew nothing of Agnes and Philippa 
as volcanoes, whose eruption was suppressed with diffi- 
culty by a master hand, the company at Elm Place seemed 
a very pleasant one, who had little to think about beyond 
amusement, and making themselves agreeable. 

At the best, however, it was evident it was but a holiday 
party. 

“ You will miss your guests when you leave Elm Place,” 
said Mr. Allerton to Miss Agnes ; “ Cumberland will seem 
just a little triste at first, I fear.” 

“ Lord Cheribert has promised to look in upon us ; he 
has taken rooms at the ‘ Angler’s Rest ’ for the fishing.” 

“Indeed!” This was news to Mr. Allerton, and good 
news. “ That will be very pleasant both for him and for 
you.” 

“ And Mr. Sinclair talks of coming too, upon the same 
errand.” 

“ Indeed ! ” He used the same word, but with a very 
different intonation. Matters, then, were much more 
serious in that quarter than he had anticipated. Sinclair 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


169 


had told him, when he had remonstrated with him in a 
paternal way on having no profession, that he rather 
thought of becoming a civil engineer. But the vicinity of 
Halswater Hall was hardly suitable for the prosecution of 
that design. He could not bring himself to believe that 
the young fellow could think of entering the lists against 
Lord Cheribert ; but the circumstance determined him to 
speak a word or two with his client. The more he thought 
of the young lord’s difficulties the more he felt convinced 
that a union with Grace was the best and quickest way out 
of them, supposing only that her father’s will could be set 
aside — a matter which', though he could not well move in 
it himself, he felt could be accomplished by mutual agree- 
ment. It was curious, considering his own strong religious 
convictions, that Grace’s faith did not present an insur- 
mountable obstacle ; but she was certainly not strongly 
attached to her creed ; and it is observable that whereas 
religious persons exceedingly resent any apostacy from 
their own communion, they think it the most natural thing 
in the world that others should exchange theirs for it. 

So, when he and his client were strolling in the woods 
one day, he suddenly observed to him — it must be con- 
fessed, rather a propos des bottes ; but the other, as he 
justly guessed, by design never gave him the least chance 
of alluding to the subject — “ Well, I hope Miss Grace is 
as great a favorite of yours as she is of mine, Cheribert.” 

“ How can you ask such a question ? ” was the unex- 
pected rejoinder, delivered in the driest of tones. “ Miss 
Grace is a favorite with everybody.” 

“ Well, that is one of the reasons why I did ask it,” 
returned the lawyer. He was piqued by the young man’s 
unwillingness to confide in him, and also irritated by the 
indifference he had all along exhibited to the dangerous 
condition of his affairs. “ It is really time, Cheribert, that 
you took things more seriously. I had hoped from finding 
you here that you had some motive beyond merely enjoy- 
ing yourself, which is, after all, not the end of life.” 

“ I have come to that conclusion myself, Allerton, but, 
I am afraid, a little late.” 

The unexpected mildness of the reply disarmed the 
lawyer ; there was also a tone of penitence in it still more 
surprising, and which, he rightly judged, could be only 
attributable to some new and gentle influence. 


170 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


“ With a man of your age, nothing in the way of amend- 
ment can be too late,” he answered. “ Notwithstanding 
all that has come and gone, yet there is nothing to despair 
of in your case. The race of life, to use a metaphor that 
is familiar to you, is in heats ; we have most of us more 
than one run for our money ; you have lost the first heat, 
that is all.” 

“ For my part,” returned the young lord grimly, “ I am 
inclined to think life a toss-up — the best out of three to 
win — and that I have lost the first toss. In either case the 
chances against me are considerable. Five to two is the 
betting, but the real odds are three to one.” 

“ As a very old friend, and one, I hope, incapable of an 
impertinence,” observed the lawyer gently, “ might I 
hazard a guess at the particular £ event ’ you have on your 
mind, Cheribert ? ” 

“ There is no need to guess ; you may take it, if you 
please, for granted,” replied the young man frankly. 

“ Let me say at once, then, that I am glad to hear you 
tell me so,” answered Mr. Allerton cordially. “ For a 
man in your position there is always a fresh start in life — 
unless, indeed, he makes a false one — in marriage. His past 
is forgotten ; his future is once more in his own hands.” 

“ And the lady's,” suggested the young lord, smiling. 

“ Just so ; and in the case we are considering it could 
not be better placed. It would be idle, however, to con- 
ceal from you, Cheribert, that there will be great diffi- 
culties in what you are proposing to yourself — difficulties 
in gaining your father’s consent, difficulties as regards the 
law ; though in both these matters you may rely on my 
doing my very best to help you.” 

“You have again forgotten the lady,” observed the 
other drily. 

“ No, I have not. There will also, as you say, be diffi- 
ties, no doubt, in that quarter. It will be, of course, abso- 
lutely necessary that you should possess the same faith.” 

“ All right. I am completely at her disposal so far : 
a very easy convert.” 

“ Cheribert, I am astonished at you ! On a subject of 
this kind I did hope you would forbear to jest.” 

“Still, one of us, as it seems, will have to do it.” 

It is quite right to be simple and unsophisticated, but 
people ought to know where to stop, at all events to 


THE BURNT MILLION. 171 

refrain from blurting out unpleasant truths. Mr. Allerton 
felt quite embarrassed. 

“ The case of Miss Grace,” he answered obliquely, “ is 
very peculiar. She is not devoted to the faith of her 
fathers.” 

“As I am,” murmured the young lord, drily, but the 
other ignored the remark. 

“ In point of fact,” he continued with a forced smile, “ it 
is doubtful whether our old friend ‘Josh’ was ever a Jew 
at all ; it is my belief he only pretended to be so with the 
object of making himself unpleasant as a testator. His 
family were not brought up in that religion, or, if they were, 
only very loosely. I am pretty sure we shall not find that 
matter an insuperable obstacle.” 

11 1 am quite sure of it,” observed Lord Cheribert drily. 

The reply, and still more the tone of it, was far from satis- 
factory to his companion, but it was a relief to him to have 
done with the topic. 

“ Well, what I venture to advise, Cheribert, is that 
there should be as little delay as possible in proceeding 
with this very important matter. Something has come to 
my knowledge — which you must excuse my going into — 
that makes it highly desirable that you and the young lady 
should come to some mutual understanding. It has noth- 
ing to do with the other matters which are pressing upon 
your attention, though I need hardly say that they would 
cease to be so very urgent in case the affair in question 
could be brought to a successful issue.” 

“ It seems to be rather a matter of business, neverthe- 
less,” observed the young man coldly. 

“ My dear Cheribert, your position does not admit of 
your settling your matrimonial affairs with the same ease 
as yonder ploughboy, nor even as a young gentleman such 
as Mr. Walter Sinclair, for example, with no impediments 
of birth and rank, not to mention other encumbrances of 
your own making.” 

The lawyer waited a moment to see whether the mention 
of Sinclair’s name awakened any sign of suspicion in his 
young friend, but it seemed to have made no impression 
upon him whatever. His face was graver far than he had 
ever seen it, but quite unruffled. “ Yes, Cheribert,” he con- 
tinued, “ for you — if you insist upon plainness of speech — 
marriage must be to some extent a bargain. There must 


172 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


be give and take on both sides ; certain stipulations must 
be made ; certain arrangements, tacit or expressed, agreed 
upon. It will not be necessary, of course, for you to go 
into them with the lady herself : her own good sense will 
point them out to her. She will understand that there are, 
and must be, contingencies — but you are not, I perceive, 
favoring me with your attention.” 

The lawyer spoke with severity, and like a man whose 
feelings were hurt ; his tone, rather than what he said, 
roused the other from his abstraction. 

If Mr. Allerton imagined that mere weariness of serious 
talk — as, indeed, had often been the case before — was 
affecting his companion, he did him an injustice. Lord 
Cheribert was serious enough himself, though it was quite 
true that he had not heard one word of what the other had 
just addressed to him. 

“ Pardon me, Allerton,” he said in his gentlest manner 
and with his most winning smile, “ I am not unconscious, 
believe me, of the good service you were trying to do me ; 

I was only wondering how it came about that it should be 
worth your while, or any man’s while, to take so much 
trouble on my account, being, as I am, such a worthless 
vagabond.” 

“ I should not permit your enemies — if, indeed, you have 
any — to say that in my hearing, my lord,” said the lawyer 
gently. He was touched by the young man’s self-abase- 
ment ; if only his father could see him at this moment, 
was his inward thought, how smoothly things would be 
made for him ! 

“ You would do all that is kind and friendly, I am quite 
sure,” continued Lord Cheribert gravely, “ but that would 
not alter the fact, you know, nor people’s opinion of me.” 

“ Let us hope that everybody at all events will not be of 
that opinion,” said Mr. Allerton, smiling significantly. 
“ I would put that to the test at once if I were you.” 

“ But how should she know ? ” said the young man 
bitterly. “ It is a noble reflection, indeed, to feel that 
one’s hope of happiness in the future lies in a woman’s 
ignorance of one’s past.” 

“ It is a position, nevertheless, in which a good many 
men who go a-wooing must needs find themselves,” 
returned the lawyer drily ; ‘ faint heart never won fair 

lady,’ my lord, is a good motto. I am bound for town to- 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


*73 


day, as you know ; will it be too much to ask of you to 
drop me a line to say how you have prospered in this 
matter ? ” 

Lord Cheribert nodded and held out his hand, which the 
other warmly grasped. Two men with less in common as 
to pursuits and opinions it would have been difficult to 
find ; the difference in their ages, great as it was, was 
slight compared with the diversity of their minds ; but 
they had a very genuine friendship for one another ; the 
lawyer had never felt his regard for his young client so 
strongly, which afterwards, through certain circumstances, 
became a source of satisfaction to him. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

AU REVOIR. 

As it is better, the doctors tell us, to leave off eating with 
an appetite than to stuff ourselves to repletion, so it is 
with respect to taking holiday. It is quite possible to 
have too much of even pleasure and leisure, as idle people 
find to their cost. To the toiler, bound to be back at his 
work by a certain date, it often seems the height of 
happiness if, like more fortunate men, he could remain 
sine die by the seaside, or at the lakes, where he has spent 
such happy days ; he thinks that he could never tire out 
the welcome that kindly nature for so brief a space has 
offered him. But in this he is mistaken. Amusement 
without work, too far prolonged, is like veal without 
bacon, or sturgeon, a fish that is thought very highly of 
by those who have not tasted it. To Walter Sinclair, 
when the time came for him to return to town, it seemed 
that in leaving Elm Place he was quitting Eden. There 
was no such compulsion on him as there was with our first 
parents ; but he had business in town in connection with 
that civil engineer affair about which he had unfortunately 
taken Mr. Allerton into his confidence ; the lawyer had 
aided him in the matter, and an appointment had been 
made with certain persons which he could hardly decline 
to keep. Moreover, Mr. Allerton was bound for town 
himself, and had offered to be his traveling companion. 


174 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


There was only a week or two more in which river life 
could have had its attractions for him, but still he was 
loth to leave it ; and much he envied Lord Cheribert, who, 
as he imagined (though on this particular occasion he was 
mistaken), was free to go or stay as he pleased, wherever 
he would. He had had no previous acquaintance of the 
pleasures of home, and far less of a home of pleasure, and 
he would have thoroughly enjoyed himself but for a vague 
longing for a certain something which he felt to be beyond 
his reach. His general views of life, which, if somewhat 
crude, were honest and wholesome enough, had in noway 
altered; rank was to him still but the guinea-stamp, and 
personal merit the only test of superiority that he acknow- 
ledged ; but he had become aware during the last few 
weeks that other people, for whom he had a respect, and 
who had treated him with hospitality, thought very differ- 
ently about these things. The comforts and luxuries with 
which he had seen them surrounded, though he cared little 
or nothing for them himself, had made an impression on 
him ; he felt that to those who were accustomed to them 
they might appear as necessary as his short black pipe and 
screw of tobacco were to him, and of course he had not the 
power to bestow them. He knew nothing of the provisions 
of Mr. Tremenhere’s will, but believed each of the ladies 
to be heiresses, and though he had been a gold-digger 
Walter Sinclair was not a fortune hunter. 

There was nothing in Indian life that had so disgusted 
him — for he had not had the same cruel experience of it 
that his father had had — as their treatment of their women, 
who toiled and slaved for them while they took their 
pleasure. To him a woman was not only an object of 
reverence but something to be worked for, and he would 
have scorned to owe his wealth to the bounty of a wife. 
Nevertheless, Grace Tremenhere was as sweet and 
attractive to him as the flower to the bee, though he had 
no intention of making honey out of her ; and he found it a 
much sadder business than he expected, when the time came 
to say “ good-bye ” to her. Considering that she was only 
one of his three hostesses, and not the chief one, it might 
have been thought that he might have been contented with 
a general farewell ; but somehow, though he would have 
shaken hands even had it been for the last time with the 
two elder sisters in the presence of each other without the 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


175 


least embarrassment, he felt that his au revoir to Grace 
(for he had been encouraged, we know, to come to Cumber- 
land) should be said to her alone. 

He found his opportunity on the campshed, where from 
the other bank he had seen her walking alone before 
breakfast, and shot across in his skiff, like an arrow from 
the bow, to join her. 

“ You are an earlier riser than your friends, Mr. Sinclair,” 
she observed with a welcoming smile. 

“ It has not been necessary for them as it has often been 
for me,” he said, “ to shoot or catch their breakfasts ; and 
the habit lasts when the necessity no longer exists.” 

“For my part,” she replied, “I love the early summer 
mornings, and am always out in them, though I have 
never felt the spur you speak of ; if I had to catch my 
breakfast, to judge by my usual performance with the 
fishing-net, I should be dreadfully hungry before I got it.” 

“ Heaven forbid, Miss Grace, that you should ever 
know such straits,” he answered fervently. 

“ Why not? On the contrary, I have come to the con- 
clusion that it would be better for all of us — just as every 
German has to be a common soldier — if we had some 
personal experience of the hard lot that falls to so many 
of our fellow-creatures. There is nothing like a personal 
experience for begetting sympathy.” 

“ No ; a hard life would not suit you, or rather, I should 
say (for I am sure you would bear it bravely), would not 
be suitable to you. The spectacle of it,” he added gently, 
“ would, moreover, be distressing to others.” 

“ And who am I, and what have I done, Mr. Sinclair, 
that I should be exempt from the common lot of humanity ? ” 
she answered, smiling, but with some touch of indignation 
too. “ Do you picture me as designed by Providence to 
loll in a carriage and think of everybody on foot as beneath 
my notice ? ” 

“ Oh no, oh no,” he answered softly ; “ my view of you 
is very different. You remember our glorious day last 
week at Windsor, and how we enjoyed that noble park, 
which has not its rival, so far as I know, in all the world? 
Well, to me, Miss Grace, you are very like that park.” 

The color rushed to her cheeks, though she made him a 
mock curtsey as if at the extravagance of the compliment. 

“ Oh, I don’t mean that way only,” he said simply, “ but 


176 


THE BURNT MILLION 


in your relation to others. Some of my friends, with 
whom on most other matters I agree, think that that park 
is too large a place to be used for what they call ‘ orna- 
mental purposes ’ — a poor phrase, in my opinion, to apply 
to its historic and native splendors ; they want it to be 
turned into allotments for the benefit of the poor. That 
might do good to a few people of the present generation 
and rob all England that is to be of their brightest jewel. 
You would make an excellent allotment, no doubt — I mean, 
if you had to work for your bread, you would do it better 
than most young ladies ; but it would be a waste of power, 
just as it would be in me, should I become the great 
engineer Mr. Allerton is so good as to prophesy, to knock 
nails in a boiler ; while at the same time the effect which 
you and your surroundings produce upon all beholders 
would be lost.” 

“ It seems that my surroundings are of some importance,” 
she answered drily. 

“ Not so important as appropriate,” he replied ; “ the 
most beautiful picture owes something to its frame, and 
may even suffer from bad mounting ; you would not have a 
jewel set in pewter.” 

Though he spoke the language of flattery it was without 
its tone ; his air, if an air of any kind could be imputed to 
him, was one of quiet conviction. Grace resented this 
exceedingly, though she did not recognize the reason ; she 
had begun to have a greater liking for this jewel set in 
pewter, or let us say this “ rough diamond,” than she was 
herself aware of, and to be desirous of his good opinion, 
but by no means of this sort of homage. 

A true woman prefers to be admired for something that 
belongs to herself, be it ever so small a thing, rather than 
for the advantages of her position — for her carriage (for 
instance) rather than for her carriage and horses. She 
dislikes to be placed on a pinnacle by one for whom she 
has a genuine regard, because it means isolation. Distance 
may lend enchantment to the view, but the remark is not 
flattering to the object. 

“ I am not accustomed to receive these high-flown com- 
pliments, Mr. Sinclair,” she said stiffly. 

“ If I have offended you let my ignorance plead for me,” 
he answered humbly. 11 As to compliments, I was not 
aware that I was paying them ; and as to high-flown ones, 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


177 


they would be altogether beyond my reach. I need not 
tell you that I am unaccustomed to the ways of you and 
yours ; still, I should be sorry, very sorry, for you to think 
me that worst kind of boor who clothes his fustian thought 
in tinsel.” 

“ Indeed, indeed, I did not think so.” 

“ Thanks, Miss Grace. You would not hurt a fly, far 
less the feelings of a man who (I hope you know) is 
deeply grateful to you, and who would do all he could to 
show it.” 

“ I take your goodwill for granted,” she answered, 
smiling, “ but I am at a loss to know in what I have laid 
you under an obligation.” 

“ I suppose so,” he answered simply ; you are as 
ignorant — if I may once more recur to my unfortunate 
metaphor — as Windsor Park itself of the benefits you 
bestow. It is well, no doubt, that it should be so ; though, 
since you take such pleasure in the happiness of others, it 
seems a pity you should be unaware of conferring it. To 
me, Miss Grace, these last few weeks have been the hap- 
piest days I ever spent or ever shall spend.” 

He paused and looked at her with such tender earnest- 
ness and gratitude that her eyes drooped before his gaze. 
“ The river life is so pleasant,” she said hurriedly, “ and we 
have been so fortunate in the weather.” 

“ Yes ; but it seems to me that there would be sunshine in 
Elm Place even though it were blowing blizzards. Well, 
that is over,” he added with a sigh, “ and I am come to say 
good-bye. I return this morning with Mr. Allerton to 
town.” 

She was unaware that any such arrangement had been 
made, and the news affected her strongly; she felt her 
heart “ go ” in a most unusual manner, and then, like a 
swimmer who has overspent himself, sink down, down ; she 
knew that her voice trembled, in spite of all her efforts to 
keep it calm, as she replied : 

“ We shall all, I am sure, miss you very much, Mr. 
Sinclair.” 

“ That seems to be impossible, though it is pleasant hear- 
ing,” he answered gently P “ I am not much accustomed 
to be missed ; and of all the homes in England I should 
think this one the most independent of a stranger’s coming 
or going.” 

12 


i7» 


THE BURNT MILLION 


How little, she thought, must this man know of her 
home ! But his lack of perception of its true character 
was a recommendation to her rather than otherwise ; it 
was no want of observation, as she well understood, for he 
was shrewd enough, that caused his ignorance, but the 
sense of gratitude for his hospitable reception which had 
prevented its exercise. She was touched, too, by his 
humility in the matter, because it was not in accordance 
with his nature, of which she had made unconscious note. 

“ I am sorry that you should still consider yourself a 
stranger to us,” she answered kindly. 

“ I am endeavoring not to consider myself at all,” he 
replied impulsively, the words were significant enough, but 
the tone in which they were uttered bespoke an intense 
emotion ; directly they had left his lips he would have 
recalled them ; the confession of his inmost thought had 
been rapture to him — a certain desperate wild delight — 
but he now bitterly accused himself for having expressed 
it. It was selfish, it was cowardly ; it was not in his 
power, perhaps, to have given his companion pain, but it 
was evident that he had caused her embarrassment ; a 
silence ensued between them which was more expressive 
than any commentary. Grace herself felt as if she could have 
bitten her tongue out for having given him what must have 
seemed “an encouragement,” and was resolved, since he 
took such advantage of his opportunities, that he should 
not have another. “ I mean,” he stammered, “ that I 
shall always think of Elm Place as something apart from 
the rest of the world, myself included. There are some 
scenes, as I dare say you have felt, which strike one so by 
their restful beauty, that when we recall them they seem 
to have belonged to some other sphere, and to be apart 
from our personal experience.” 

“ Really ? I have no recollection of any such, but then 
I have not enjoyed your advantages of travel.” 

“ My advantages ! ” he answered bitterly ; “ the com- 
pulsory wanderings of a vagabond are not generally 
looked upon in that light. I do not flatter myself for a 
moment that I shall be remembered here. If one of your 
sisters should some day say to you, * Do you recollect that 
uncouth young fellow from America or somewhere who 
used to visit us when we lived on the river ? 9 and you are 
so good as to say ‘ Yes,’ I know I ought to be perfectly 


THE BURNT MILLION 


179 


satisfied ; but on my side my feelings will be very differ- 
ent. I came here utterly unknown to you all, as indeed 1 
still am : I am not such a fool as to suppose that, like 
Lord Cheribert, I bring my welcome with me, and yet I 
have been received with the same hospitality and kindness ; 
it is an experience I am not likely to forget, believe me.” 

Again his tone, freighted with tenderness and pathos, 
conveyed infinitely more than his words ; his thanks, too, 
which by rights were due to Miss Agnes as head of the 
house, seemed to Grace, though he had not actually said 
so, to be addressed to her personally. 

Under ordinary circumstances it would even so have 
been easy enough for her to acknowledge them ; but she 
found it far from easy. She could not trust her voice to 
speak for her. Fortunately at that moment Rip came 
running down the lawn to them, and leapt into her arms. 

“ He is one friend who at least should always remember 
you, Mr. Sinclair.” 

“ The dear little doggie ! Well, even if he owed me 
something for pulling him out of the lasher, he has since 
repaid me fifty fold.” 

The little creature, if he had but known it, was adding 
to his obligations now ; its dumb caresses reminded the 
girl of the moment when she had seen this young fellow 
leap into the flood to save her favorite, like a river-god, 
but without the security of his immortality. How nearly 
he had perished for little Rip’s sake — and hers ! It was 
necessary that she should hide her heart instead from him, 
since she felt utterly unable to harden it. 

“ Though I say good-bye, Miss Grace,” he continued 
after a pause, “ it is not, I am glad to think, for the last 
time.” 

u Indeed ? ” she smiled and raised her eyebrows, as if 
in pleased surprise. 

“ Did you not know,” he stammered, “ that your sister 
had invited, at least had spoken of there being good fishing 
in the neighborhood of your Cumberland home, and kindly 
expressed a wish that I should try it?” 

“ To be sure,” she cried ; “ I had forgotten.” 

His countenance fell, and he turned deadly pale. 

It was cruel of her, but not so cruel to him as to herself; 
for while she thus kept him at arm’s length, she was hug- 
ging the dog to her bosom for his sake. 


i8o 


THE BURNT MILLION 


“ It was only natural you should have done so,” he 
answered calmly ; “ to you it must have seemed so. very 
small a matter ; but on my side — as I was just saying — 
things look so differently. Good-bye, Miss Grace.” 

“ But will you not breakfast with us? ” 

“ No, thanks, no. I will just go in and take leave of 
your sisters. Good-bye, little doggie ” — he took up the 
little creature’s paw — “ I owe you many thanks. Your 
mistress will not even shake my hand, so I shake yours.” 

Grace laughed and put out her hand, which trembled as 
he took it ; “I do not say good-bye,” she said, “ because 
it is only, it seems, to be an revoirU 

It was not much to say, nor was the manner with which 
it was said, though gracious, particularly encouraging ; but 
to Walter Sinclair, though there was nothing of exultation 
in his manner of taking leave, for it was respectful even to 
reverence, it seemed a great deal, and made a great differ- 
ence. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

A DETERMINED SUITOR. 

Breakfast that morning at Elm Place was even a duller 
meal than usual. The two elder sisters never seemed to 
wake up to life till Mr. Roscoe and the rest crossed the 
river ; they sat in sullen silence, save when it was absolutely 
necessary to speak to one another, and were so studiously 
and pointedly polite to Grace (to show how they could 
appreciate a kinswoman worthy of their attention) that she 
almost wished they had sent her also to Coventry. Never- 
theless, she always did her best to keep up the conversa- 
tion, though it was like playing lawn tennis alone against 
a double. But this morning, somehow, she was not equal 
to the strain. The words Walter Sinclair had spoken to 
her with such passionate energy, “ I am endeavoring not 
to think of myself at all,” were still ringing in her ears ; 
she had recognized their meaning, but not what had caused 
their utterance ; if he had said, “ I am endeavoring not to 
think of you” he could hardly have expressed himself more 
plainly. And why should he endeavor not to think of her ? 


THE BURNT MILLION. 181 

At the moment this question, which had naturally suggested 
itself, had filled her with vague suspicions of him. There 
had been that in his manner which she could not mistake 
for mere friendship — a tenderness, hidden by the veil of an 
exaggerated admiration, or forcibly repressed. The idea 
of the difference of their positions, as regarded wealth, 
never entered into her mind, and would have seemed to 
her, had it done so, to be the last to enter into his ; she did 
not understand how independence of character could be 
associated with a humility born of convention — it was 
more probable that there were other and far stronger 
reasons for his reticence. As he had said himself, he was 
a stranger to them still ; concealment, indeed, of any kind, 
seemed foreign to his character ; but, for all she knew 
about him, he might have been a married man : the idea 
was abhorrent to her, and had been dismissed at once, for 
in truth, she believed him incapable of a baseness, but 
there was certainly something that tied his tongue. More- 
over, with the inconsistency of her sex, she resented his 
having spoken to her even as he had done, upon so short 
an acquaintance, and on such very slight encouragement. 
It had therefore come to pass that she had “ snubbed ” 
him — or (as it now appeared to her) had treated him with 
unnecessary and uncalled-for harshness. To pretend to 
have forgotten that he had been invited to come to the 
North, had been in particular, she felt, a piece of wanton 
cruelty ; and his humble reply, “ It was only natural you 
should have forgotten,” was as an arrow that had gone 
home to her very heart. She had, it was true, at parting, 
shown that she took it for granted they were to meet again, 
but she had not even expressed a wish that they should do 
so, as she would have done to any ordinary guest ; and 
now, alas ! she knew the reason why. He had not been 
an ordinary guest, but one that her heart had been enter- 
taining in its inmost chamber, unawares, and she had only 
discovered it when it was too late. After such a dismissal, 
it was hardly likely that he would risk a second one, and 
it was probable that she had lost him for ever. It was no 
Wonder that her heart was heavy within her and her tongue 
slow to speak. She found balm, however, in a Gilead 
where she least expected it, and where the soil did not 
often produce that commodity. 

“ So you had your ‘good-bye 9 from Mr. Sinclair on the 


182 


THE BURNT MILLION, 


campshed, I suppose, Grace ? ” said Miss Agnes ; “ I hope 
he was as effusive as he was to us.” 

“ He seemed very grateful for such hospitality as we 
were able to show him,” answered Grace gently. 

“ Grateful ! I never had my hand so squeezed before ! ” 
continued Agnes; “ one would have thought I had given 
him a thousand pounds.” 

Philippa broke into a little laugh, not, it is to be feared, at 
the pleasantry, which, indeed, was hardly deserving of it, 
so much as at the want of experience in hand-squeezing to 
which the speaker had so imprudently confessed. 

“ However, he is an honest young fellow,” continued 
Agnes, “ and I was glad to hear him renew his promise of 
looking in upon us at Hals water.” 

For this good news, had it not been for the presence of 
her other sister, and from fear that the action might be 
imputed to an association of ideas, Grace could have 
thrown her arms round Agnes’ neck and kissed her. 

“ We are going to lose Mr. Allerton this morning also,” 
observed Philippa, “ and in the afternoon Lord Cheribert. 
It is very inconsiderate of the gentlemen thus to desert us 
altogether.” 

“ Is Lord Cheribert going ? ” inquired Grace with inter- 
est. 

“ Yes ; did you not know it ? ” 

The two elder ladies exchanged significant glances ; the 
“ little affairs ” of their younger sister were common 
ground, and almost the only ones on which they could meet 
without bickering. 

“ No, I did not know it,” said Grace. “ We shall miss 
him very much.” 

“You did not favor Mr. Sinclair, my dear, with that 
impression of your regret,” observed Agnes slyly. 

“We have known Lord Cheribert longer,” replied Grace 
innocently, but blushing to her ear-tips. 

“ To be sure ; I suppose we have seen him twice before,” 
remarked Philippa with quiet enjoyment, “ which, of 
course, makes a great difference.” 

Grace felt that her sisters were amusing themselves at 
her expense, but bore it with great sweetness, and the more 
easily since, with all their sagacity, it was clear that they 
were altogether on a false scent. It was not in human 
nature to resist leading them a little further astray. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


'*3 


“ I suppose Lord Cheribert is going simply because he 
is tired of us,” she observed with a little pout ; “ there can 
be no business to demand his attention.” 

“ Well, it isn’t exactly business, of course, my dear,” 
satd Agnes soothingly ; “but you knowhow he is wedded 
— for the present — to sporting affairs : it is to keep some 
appointment at a steeplechase, I believe, that he is obliged 
to be away. But it is to be his last appearance in the 
saddle ; after which he will be reconciled to his father, and 
assume his proper position in the world.” 

“ When, I suppose, we shall never see him again,” 
observed Grace with a little sigh. 

“ That remains to be proved, my dear,” said Agnes 
encouragingly. “ Like Mr. Sinclair, he has promised, you 
know, to come and see us at Halswater. It would be only 
civil, by-the-bye, if you were to remind him of it ; then, if 
he does come, we shall know the reason, shall we not?” 

“ We shall be able, at all events, to make a tolerable 
guess at it,” smiled her sister. 

Like a general whose courage has carried him too far 
into the enemy’s country, Grace would have been now 
very ready to retreat from the position whither her little 
joke had carried her, when, fortunately, she was released 
by the arrival of the subject of their conversation, in com- 
pany with Mr. Roscoe, by boat. Mr. Allerton had sent his 
apologies for not taking leave in person ; he had overslept 
himself, and had no time to spare to catch the train for 
town. The shadow of departure seemed to sit upon Lord 
Cheribert’s face ; he was so much more silent than usual 
that Agnes rallied him upon it. 

“ How could it be otherwise,” he said gently, “ since I 
too am leaving Elm Place ? We are like boys whose 
holiday is over and are going back to work.” 

“ Yet somebody has just been saying that your life is all 
holiday,” observed Agnes, laughing. 

“ Indeed ! I am afraid she meant, however, all idleness, 
which is something very different,” answered the young man 
gravely; he did not look towards Grace, but she knew 
that he attributed the remark to herself, and would have 
given much to have been able to disclaim it. She would 
have, somehow, preferred that he should not take notice of 
her at all that morning. 

This, however, was not to be. Agnes soon left the room, 


THE BURNT MILLION 


184 

on pretence of some matters of the house requiring her 
attention, and Philippa took Mr. Roscoe out with her 
upon the lawn, perhaps without design (for she never lost 
an opportunity of being alone with him), but after what 
her sisters had been saying to Grace, it had an uncomfort' 
able sense to her of design. Lord Cheribert and herself 
were thus left alone. 

“ As it is my last morning, Miss Grace,” he said with 
his pleasant smile, but in a tone much more serious than 
usual, “ might I ask a favor of you ? ” Before she could 
reply (a circumstance for which she felt strangely thankful) 
he added, “ It is only that we should take that walk on the 
hill together which we took when I first came.” 

She answered, as lightly as she could, “by all means,” 
and put on her hat, which, “ on the river ” ladies have 
never to go far for. As they left the hpuse she stopped to 
call the dog — a natural action enough, but one which she 
had never before felt so impelled to do ; it was extra- 
ordinary how much dearer Rip had grown to be to her 
within the last hour. 

“ How fond you are of that little creature ! it ought to 
be a happy doggie,” said Lord Cheribert. 

“ I don’t know about that ; but he likes, I think, to be 
with me — ‘ the off-and-011 companion of my walks,’ as 
Wordsworth calls it.” 

“ I wish I was good at poetry,” sighed the young man ; 
“but, unfortunately, I am good at nothing.” 

“ I should be sorry to think that, Lord Cheribert.” 

“ But you do think it ; how can it be otherwise ? Not 
that I mind your doing it — that is, of course, I wish I were 
more worthy of your good opinion ; but I had rather be 
brought to book by you — by Jove, I would — than praised 
by other people ! ” 

“ I was really not aware that I had ever ‘brought you 
to book,’ as you call it, Lord Cheribert. I suppose it’s a 
sporting expression.” 

“ Don’t laugh at me, please, Miss Grace,” he answered 
humbly ; “ scold me as much as you please — it does me 
good ; but don’t laugh at me.” 

“It is rather difficult to help it, when you talk of my 
doing you good.” 

“ Ah, but you do. No one in the world has ever done 
it but you. Schoolmasters have tried it, dons have 


THE BURNT MILLION 


185 

tried it, the governor has tried it ; but they might just 
as well have thrown water on a duck’s back. I was dry 
the next moment. But from the day I first saw you — no, 
the day you had the kindness 10 talk to me in this very 
place — Heaven knows how long ago, but it seems a cen- 
tury ” 

“ That is not very complimentary to your entertainers at 
Elm Place,” she put in quietly. 

“ Now, you are laughing again at me ; I don’t think you 
would do it if you knew how cruel it was. What I mean 
is, not that the time has been heavy on my hands here, 
Heaven knows, but that what has happened to me seems 
more important than all that has happened anywhere else. 
I feel as if half my life has been passed here and half else- 
where ; and the two halves have been so different ! ” 

He paused and she said “ Yes ? ” — a ridiculous and 
ineffectual monosyllable, as she was well aware ; but what 
was she to say ? His manner was so earnest, his tone so 
tender, his look so beseeching, that she could hardly 
believe it was Lord Cheribert. 

“ There is a verse, I know not from what author, the 
governor used to be fond of quoting to me on a Sunday,” 
he continued. “ ‘ Between the stirrup and the ground, 
mercy I sought, mercy I found ’ — a religious version, I 
suppose, of ‘ It’s never too late to mend,’ and one, I con- 
clude, which he thought especially applicable to me as a 
racing man. If Providence is really so kind to a sinner, 
cannot you also hold up some hope to him ? ” 

They were standing on a span of the hill, with the wood 
at their back and a great expanse of landscape beneath 
them ; the river with its fairy fleet winding for miles till it 
shrank to a thread ; men and women at their labor in the 
fields ; cattle in their pasture ; but not a sound came up to 
them. The world seemed to be lying at their feet, but they 
two far removed from it. It was a scene one of them never 
forgot. 

“It is not to an ignorant girl like me that you should 
apply, Lord Cheribert, in such matters as you speak of; 
they are altogether too high for me. I can only say with 
one of the greatest of our fellow-creatures on his deathbed, 
‘ Be a good man ; nothing else can comfort you.’ ” 

“ That is all that I want you to say, Grace, provided only 
that you will teach me to be one. Priests are no use to me. 


1 86 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


It is from you alone that I have learnt to understand my 
own worthlessness. My fate is in your hands. ” 

“ In mine , my lord ? ” she answered with a faint pretence 
of misunderstanding him. “What would you have me 
do?” 

“ Give me your love ; or, if that is impossible, as indeed 
it may well be at present, give me hope. I can be patient 
enough with such a prize in view, and though I shall never 
be worthy of it, I will try, every day and every hour, to 
make myself more so. You see, dear Grace,” — here he 
smiled so brightly that it seemed hard indeed to say him 
nay — “ I have so many advantages on my side ; every step 
which is not astray, and of which other men would have 
nothing to congratulate themselves upon, will be to me a 
clear gain ; I have been, until I knew you, so exceedingly 
disreputable. You may say, indeed,” he continued, cheer- 
fully, “ that that of itself is no recommendation ; but when 
you see me or hear of me becoming more and more as you 
would wish me to be, and know that it is all your doing, 
you will begin to take just a little pride in me, as in the 
work of your own hands. When people ask me, as they 
will be sure to do, what is the meaning of this reformation, 
I shall tell them — but gently and not passionately — to 
mind their own business, until I have your permission to 
explain matters ; for a day will come — I feel sure of it — 
when you will not be ashamed of acknowledging me as 
your disciple ; a day when my father will ask me in his 
solemn way, ‘ What has snatched you like a brand from the 
burning ? ’ and I shall reply to him in his own language, 
‘ Grace.’ ” 

“ Lord Cheribert,” replied the girl, with dignity, “ if it 
were anyone but yourself who is thus speaking to me, I 
should say that it was impossible that what you express so 
lightly could be seriously intended.” 

“ It’s my unfortunate way of speaking,” interposed the 
young man, humbly. “ I am — that is, I used to be — frivol- 
ity itself, I know ; but it’s only manner.” 

“ I am aware of it. I also feel that it would be quite 
inconsistent with your nature to give anyone, designedly, 
a moment’s pain. It would give me pain — very great dis- 
tress of mind, Lord Cheribert — to discuss the matter which 
you have so unexpectedly forced upon my attention.” 

“ Forced ! Good Heavens ! ” A look of unutterable 
sorrow crossed the young man’s face. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


187 


“ Forgive me ; I was unnecessarily harsh. I wanted to 
stop you. The thought of your father — since you have 
mentioned him — ought, in my opinion, to have kept you 
silent. I know little of the world’s ways ; but setting all 
other objections, even more important, though not less 
grave, aside, can it be imagined for a moment that your 
father would approve of what you have just been saying? ” 

“ My father ! ” he exclaimed, contemptuously ; “ what 
can he give me in place of you that I should consult his 
wishes? What has he ever done for me that can be 
matched with what you have done ? What is he in my eyes 
as compared with you? Nothing, and less than nothing.” 

“ You ought to be ashamed to say so, Lord Cheribert,” 
she answered, indignantly. “ My father is dead, yet his 
memory is a more sacred thing than any living man can 
give me. You talk of reformation, but it seems to me that 
reformation, like charity, should begin at home.” 

“You are right, Grace ; you are always right,” returned 
the young man with an air of quiet conviction. “ I will be 
dutiful to him, because you tell me it is my duty, and 
therefore it must be so. His consent shall be obtained, at 
whatever price. My pride shall bend its neck, and he shall 
put his foot upon it.” 

“But that is only one thing, Lord Cheribert, and not the 
greatest thing, that puts a barrier between you and me.” 

She spoke with firmness, even with vigor ; but at the 
same time she recognized her mistake in having permitted 
herself, even for a moment, to be drawn into a discussion 
of details. The determination in his face which had sud- 
denly become cold and calm, as though it had been hewn 
in marble, appalled her. 

“ That I can easily believe, dear Grace,” he answered, 
gently. a No one can expect to get to heaven express and 
without stoppages. If you will be kind enough to mention 
your objections I will tick them off on my fingers — or, if 
you will permit me, what will be far better on yours — 
and answer them, one after another, as well as I can.” 

It was very difficult to deal with such a lover ; passionate 
as Rousseau, resolute as Wellington, but in manner a far- 
ceur. It was as natural to Lord Cheribert to be droll in 
the most serious situations as for a dull man to be serious 
in a droll one. Like a planet (which was also, alas ! a 
falling star), he dwelt in an atmosphere of his own, which, 


1 88 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


while by no means one of mere persiflage, was of exceeding 
levity. 

“ I will mention one obstacle to your suit, since you 
compel me to do so,” answered Grace, gravely, “ which, I 
am sure you will agree with me, can leave no more to be 
said. I am deeply touched by the honor you have done 
me, and I shall never cease to be your friend and well- 
wisher; but I do not love you, Lord Cheribert.” 

He bit his lip and turned a little pale, then smiled again 
as pleasantly as ever. 

“ It would be quite beyond my utmost expectations if 
you did, dear Grace,” he answered, gently ; “ but T have — 
as regards yourself at least — a plentiful stock of patience, 
and an immense reserve of what our friends call obstinacy 
and we ourselves resolution. You shall teach me every- 
thing else, and I will teach you to love me.” 

“ It is impossible, my lord ; I shall never learn that 
lesson.” 

He looked at her a moment in silence ; the dog came 
barking from the wood, and ran to its mistress, who took 
it up in her arms. For the first time Lord Cheribert’s 
pleasant face was clouded with a frown. 

“ Perhaps,” he said, “ you have learnt it already from 
some other teacher? That is a question which, if you could 
read my heart, you would not refuse to answer; my life 
hangs on it.” 

She buried her face in that of her little favorite to hide 
the flush that overspread her cheeks. 

“ I must have your ‘ yes ’ or ‘ no,’ Grace,” he continued 
with tender earnestness. “ Are you engaged to another 
man ? ” 

She looked up at him haughtily, almost defiantly. 

“ No, I am not, my lord ; but that can make no difference.” 

The young man uttered a sigh of relief ; then broke into 
a laugh full of joyful music. “ Oh, but indeed it does,” he 
said ; “ if you did but know how happy that reply has 
made me, you would never have the heart to take such 
happiness away. Do not spoil it by another word. I ask 
for nothing more — just now. You see how easily I am 
satisfied — which is a great recommendation in a husband.” 

44 My lord ” 

“ There now, I have angered you. Forgive me. Rip, 
you rascal, of whom I feel so jealous, ask your dear mistress 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


189 

to forgive me. It is the very last peccadillo of a lifetime. 
Let us change the subject and talk of something else. 
Which do you like best, Miss Grace, the river or the moun- 
tain, Elm Place or the Fells ? Your sisters — and here they 
come with Roscoe, the Inseparable — have recommended 
me to try the fishing in Halswater. I shall shortly, there-* 
fore, have the pleasure of meeting you again.” 

“Believe me, Lord Cheribert, it will be useless,” she 
answered hastily, for the others were approaching. 

“ I shall come if I am alive,” he answered, quietly. 
“ Miss Tremenhere, what a view you .have here ! I can- 
not believe, for all you tell me, that your Cumberland home 
can show a finer.” 

“ I hope you will come, then, and judge for yourself, as 
you have half promised to do, Lord Cheribert,” said Agnes, 
graciously. 

“ Plalf promised? Indeed, I have whole promised,” 
returned the young man, cheerfully. “ There is nothing I 
look forward to with greater pleasure. I know when I am 
well off (it’s a long time since I have been well off, as Ros- 
coe knows), and if I have the same good time at Halswater 
as I have had at Elm Place. I shall have reason, indeed, to 
congratulate myself.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

IN LAKELAND. 

There are two valleys in Lakeland, side by side, far 
removed from those who are familiar to its tourists, both of 
them beautiful, but with a beauty that owes little to verdure 
and less to foliage, each traversed by a rocky stream — in 
the one case by the Werdle, in the other by the Start — - 
from which they take their names. In the Werdle valley 
there is a farm or two, a roadside inn, and a vicarage with 
a church in proportion to the value of the benefice, which 
it would be mockery indeed to call “ a living ” ; in the 
Start valley there are, where it is widest, but a few cottages, 
and where it narrows and the huge fells begin to hem it in, 
there is no sign of human habitation ; there are no cattle, 
nor sheep. The hill fox and the foul-mart are to be found 


THE BURNT MILLION 


1 90 

there, indeed, but only by those who know where to look 
for them ; the very birds that haunt those solitary walls of 
rock are few ; the rock raven and the buzzard hover over 
them. Past Werdle, and over the hill that separates it 
from its neighbor-valley, and up the Start vale at its head, 
is the mountain road to Halswater. Many fair scenes and 
many fine ones are to be beheld by the pedestrian upon his 
way ; but what will strike him most, not from its beauty, 
though it is very beautiful, but from the unexpectedness of 
finding it amongst such wild and grim surroundings, is the 
view of a country-house. Until eight hundred feet or so 
of the pass has been ascended, Nature in her wildest garb 
alone presents herself to him ; but presently, through a cleft 
in a much loftier mountain range, his eye falls on a glint of 
blue, which is the foot of Halswater; and on its sterile 
verge, as if dropped there from the clouds, a mansion with 
lawns and gardens belted with noble trees, like an oasis in 
the desert. To find such an abode of luxury and ease 
cradled in crag and fell is startling, but there is nothing in 
its appearance that jars upon Nature’s grandeur ; time has 
so mellowed what art so well began that it seems no more 
out of place than any other of those ancestral English homes 
which seem part and parcel of the landscape they adorn. 
The wonder of the beholder is how it got there. To have 
dragged the materials for building it over the way he has 
come would have defied even Egyptian labor. Five hun- 
dred feet higher, and the secret is disclosed to him ; yonder 
lies the ocean ; and even where he stands the discordant 
shriek of the hawk will, in wild weather, not seldom mingle 
with the whine of the sea-gull. It was said in old times 
that only two dalesmen knew the road to Halswater Hall, 
but the sailor always knew it. It was he who brought the 
oak for its paneling, the marble for its mantels, and the 
pictures for its gallery. 

With the sea half-a-dozen miles or so away for its back- 
ground, the mansion looks even more enviable a dwelling- 
place than at the first glance. But, like more humble 
homes, it has not been able to close its doors against mis- 
fortunes ; not only have Disease and Death visited it in 
their never-omitted rounds, but even War has found its way 
there. In Cromwell’s time, indeed, its position was so 
remote that it is written its inmates and their neighbors 
knew not of the existence of the Great Protector till he 


THE BURNT MILLION i 


* 9 * 

and his work had passed away, but in the later Stuart days 
Faction, jealous of its peaceful solitude, and disguised in 
the garb of Loyalty, made it a nest of treason. Then the 
sea brought ships by night, and the ships brought men, 
and the standard of Rebellion was raised where yonder 
clump of pines casts its shadows on the lake, and the 
mountain echoes learnt for the first time the sound of the 
trumpet. Then Authority came and with relentless foot 
crushed Rebellion out, and set her torch to the fair dwell- 
ing — where the mark of it can still be seen — and wrote her 
name in blood in all the peaceful valleys so deeply that it 
took generations to efface it. But one thing it left alive, 
veiled Discontent : and though there was no more war there 
was treason still, and the sea brought plotters from the 
north who lay perdu in the stately place, and priests who 
dwelt, like conies, in holes and corners of it, and once a 
fugitive, it is said, with a dark face but jovial mien, before 
whom Sir Eustace himself stood unbonnetted, and who 
drank out of the only cup of silver the soldiers of the 
Hanoverian had left in the plate room. 

Then the ancient family in time died out, and though it 
could not be quite said that its memory had faded “ from 
all the circle of the hills,” its legends were giving place to 
gossip about the new-comers. A dozen years ago or so, 
one Mr. Joseph Tremenhere, from London, an unknown, 
supposed to be connected with commercial pursuits, had 
bought the place and renewed its glories, but in the modern 
fashion. The domestics were almost as many as of yore, 
and far more gorgeously attired ; new pleasure-boats and 
a steam yacht were added to the house flotilla ; the billiard- 
room was fitted up with gas-reflectors (a circumstance that 
set the very dale aflame) ; and it was even believed by 
some that ice was to be found on the dinner-table in the 
hottest summer day. Stories in this style of Eastern exag- 
geration were told of the Hall and its owner by the land- 
lord of the “ Fisher’s Welcome ” at the head of the lake, 
to amuse his guests when the wet weather, as it was wont 
to do in those parts, set in. Mr. Tremenhere had been a 
“ good sort,” it seemed, and thought no more of giving a 
guinea to a guide ora boatman than if it were a shilling; 
but he did not go to kirk, nor had he the excuse of belong- 
ing to the ancient faith as his predecessors at the Hall done ; 
for their chapel was now only used as a music gallery. It 


192 


■ THE BURNT MILLION. 


was hazarded by some gentleman sportsman at the “ Wel- 
come ” that Mr. Tremenhere might be a Jew — a pleasantry 
received with rapture, and one which in the neighborhood 
(where jokes were scarce) was often quoted to the general 
enjoyment. 

As to the members of his family, Miss Tremenhere was 
thought to be rather calm and stately, which in the mis- 
tress of so great a household seemed pardonable enough ; 
Miss Philippa to be good-natured and very civil ; but Miss 
Grace, all were agreed, was the flower of the flock. She 
had a good word for everyone, and an open hand (with 
something in it) wherever it was needed. There was much 
less mystery about the new proprietor of the Hall than there 
had been about the old ones, but Mr. Edward Roscoe 
puzzled folks. He always accompanied his patron on his 
summer holiday, but without sharing his diversions : for 
fishing he had apparently as little taste as skill ; there were 
a few grouse on the hills about the house, but they suffered 
no diminution in their numbers at his hands ; he did not 
seem to be moved by that passion for the picturesque 
which brought some harmless lunatics to Halswater; no 
one, in short, could understand why Mr. Roscoe was a 
standing dish at his host’s table. At first they took him 
for the bridegroom elect of one of the two elder Miss Tre- 
menheres, but in course of years that illusion vanished. 
They then concluded he was Mr. Tremenhere’s secretary, 
as indeed he was, and something more. If they could have 
guessed the real nature of his duties it would have aston- 
ished them exceedingly ; for the owner of Halswater Hall 
had nothing in common with Josh of Lebanon Lodge, 
Kensington. He caught fish on his hook instead of men 
— the speckled trout and the scarlet char, in place of the 
nobility and the military — and placed them in stew-ponds 
to be devoured at leisure. He put the screw on none of his 
tenants, and therefore had no necessity of employing Mr. 
Roscoe’s skill with that instrument ; and yet that gentle- 
man was somehow as unpopular as an Irish landlord’s 
agent under the Plan of the Campaign. When the news 
came to the Northern home of Mr. Tremenhere’s decease, 
the honest dalesmen were moved to sorrow, but found some 
mitigation of it in the reflection that now that they had 
lost the substance they would also lose the shadow that 
had dogged it ; but in this they were fated to be mistaken. 


THE BURNT MILLION 


193 


When the three bereaved sisters arrived at the Hall Mr. 
Roscoe arrived with them ; only, instead of living under 
the same roof as of old, he was accommodated in a cottage 
in the grounds, which had been used by the old family, in 
the days of their hospitality, for overflow guests. 

Matters were not so pleasant in the household as they 
had been at Elm Place. The presence of visitors had 
there had a restraining influence upon the two elder sisters, 
who, now that they were alone together, often said sharp 
things (in the sense of antagonism rather than cleverness, 
as Ajax was called acerrimus Ajax) to one another, and 
still sharper, in confidence, to Mr. Roscoe, ofoxiz another. 
That gentleman’s position, though as general manager of 
so vast an establishment, and one in whom the most 
implicit trust was placed, it seemed to be enviable, had 
some crumpled rose-leaves about it, and even occasionally 
thorns. Each sister wanted the attention he paid to the 
other ; but Agnes — which was curious, since she had 
usually more self-command — by far the most openly. She 
“ could not understand why he gave himself the trouble to 
make such a fool of Philippa,” which was her way of 
stating that he spoilt her ; to which he would reply with 
his most winning smile, “ It is for your sake,” which 
always pacified her. 

It must not be imagined, however, notwithstanding this 
tenderness of speech, that anything he said to her could 
be construed into a declaration of love ; nor did Agnes 
complain of this reticence — not so much, perhaps, because 
she was old enough to know better, as of a certain under- 
standing which existed between them. With Philippa he 
was tender too, but in a less confidential way; and yet her 
too he contrived to keep in good temper. Mr. Edward 
Roscoe, indeed, deserved the name of a good manager 
even more than those who grudgingly enough bestowed it 
on him imagined; but no one knew what his success cost 
him. Moreover, with every day his position became more 
precarious, as is apt to be the case with those who have 
given “ promises to pay” without the possession of assets. 
It is true that there was no date on the bill, but it had to 
be renewed nevertheless, and the operation, though it had 
some likeness to a lover’s quarrel, was by no means the 
renewal of love. He was pressed, too, from without 
(though that need not be referred to at present) as well as 


194 


7 HE BURNT MILLION. 


from within, and was already in such straits as might have 
made some men desperate. But though Edward Roscoe 
had nothing of what we call faith, he believed in Edward 
Roscoe, and, like all men of his type, was confident that 
time and chance would somehow work together in favor of 
so deserving an object. 

Much more apart from him than her sisters, but hardly 
more ignorant of the plans he was devising, and in which 
she too had her place, stood Grace Tremenhere. Indeed 
she stood apart from her sisters also, though they still 
united in treating her, after their fashion, with tenderness. 
Of her at least they had no jealousy, and though to some 
degree she stood in their way, they did not visit that 
involuntary crime with their displeasure. In some re- 
spects, though their hopes rested on her having reached a 
marriageable age, they still considered her as a child, her 
presence softened their characters — long warped from 
what they might have been, and stunted by rivalry and 
discontent — and evoked what little remained to them of 
fun and freshness. Unfortunately for her peace of mind, 
their humor — as always happens with women of coarse 
natures — took the form of raillery about her supposed 
admirers. When the post came (at an hour when it leaves 
places less out of the world), they would pretend to look at 
the superscription of her letters, and were perpetually 
asking her when Lord Cheribert was to make his appearance. 
“ We told you, you know, that if he came we should know 
for certain what he came for, and his last words, as you 
remember, were that he intended to come.” 

It was a very unwelcome as well as threadbare jest, but 
it was difficult for her to put a stop to it, and it was at 
least some comfort that their assurances of his lordship's 
intention prevented them from harping upon a still more 
tender string. If they had ever entertained a suspicion 
about Walter Sinclair it was clear they had dismissed it. 
But as regarded the girl herself, it was certain that she 
thought of that young gentleman a good deal more than 
when he had been their visitor. He was not, of course, 
her lover ; unlike Lord Cheribert, he had never breathed a 
word of love to her ; but what he had said — his few vague 
phrases of repressed admiration — were recalled to her 
mind much oftener than the other’s passionate and deter- 
mined words. The remembrance of the latter filled her 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


195 


with alarm, and even with repugnance. She feared his 
perseverance and importunity, which in that lonely spot, 
surrounded by those who. far from having sympathy with 
her resistance, would be ranged upon their side, would, she 
felt, be wellnigh intolerable. If she had but had Mr. 
Allerton to appeal to — for she had no idea that his 
influence had been thrown into the other scale — it would 
have been some comfort ; but she was absolutely without 
friend or adviser, save the secret whispers of her high- 
beating heart. 

If Walter — that is Mr. Walter Sinclair — should keep his 
promise of coming up to Halswater — but his doing so was 
doubtful ; fool that she was to have discouraged him ! — 
then indeed — but even that was set with difficulties and 
embarrassments. Perhaps they might quarrel, and she be 
the unwilling cause ; these two young men, one of whom 
she liked so much — at a distance — and the other whom she 
— she did not say she loved even to herself, but a blush, 
though none was there to see it, spoke for her. 

One night, as the ladies were thinking of retiring, a sound 
of wheels upon the broad gravel sweep made itself heard 
in the drawing-room ; for by coming a score of miles and 
more from the nearest station the house was now approach- 
able by wheels, which in the old time it had not been ; 
then there was a peal at the front-door bell. 

“ He has come at last ! ” cried the elder sisters in a 
breath, and both of them looked significantly at Grace. 

“ The idea of his coming here instead of to the inn ! ” 
exclaimed Agnes ; “ this is making himself at home 
indeed. You must put him up in the cottage, Mr. Roscoe.” 

“ You need not disturb yourself, Miss Agnes, nor need 
Miss Grace put on that heightened color,” observed the 
gentleman appealed to. “ I hear a voice which is certainly 
not that of Lord Cheribert.” 

“ But who on earth can it be ? ” asked Agnes. 

“Why, of course it’s Mr. Roscoe’s brother,” observed 
Philippa. 

“ How do you know that ? ” inquired Agnes, with sudden 
vehemence. 

il I don’t know it, I only guess it,” answered Philippa 
with an uneasy look, “ because, as you know, he has been 
jxpected for so long.” 

Then the door opened and the butler announced Mr. 
Richard Roscoe. 


196 


THE BURNT MILLION 


CHAPTER XXVIL 

MR. RICHARD. 

The man who was thus ushered for the first time into the 
presence of the Tremenhere family would have been 
remarkable anywhere, but in that splendid drawing-room, 
surrounded by all the accessories of wealth and luxury, his 
appearance was especially striking from its incongruity. 
He was dressed in what is known in the neighborhood of 
Ratcliff Highway as “ clops,” a suit of ready-made clothes 
that hung on his gaunt, spare limbs like the attire of a 
scarecrow. It was, or had been, a sailor’s suit, but he had 
not the least resemblance to a sailor. He had long brown 
hair, and a beard so deeply tinged with grey that it did 
not seem to match it. Though at least six feet in height, 
he had not a superfluous ounce of flesh about him ; he was 
emaciated and hollow-eyed, like one who had endured 
great hardships ; to his brother, who had a robust frame, 
and was attired in faultless evening dress, he presented the 
strongest contrast. They had absolutely nothing in 
common. There was something in the new-comer, how- 
ever, which spoke of vanished strength, or at least of great 
powers of endurance ; what could be seen of his muscles 
stood out like whipcord. His eyes were very expressive, 
wild as those of a hawk ; perhaps at one time they might 
have been as fierce, but they had now a haunted look in 
them. A judge of physiognomy would have pronounced 
this man to have passed through some terrible experience. 

The meeting between the brothers was friendly, but not 
cordial. The new-comer seemed to have some doubt of 
his welcome ; while the other, despite his habitual self- 
command, was evidently embarrassed. His manner was 
nervous, and he spoke with a rapidity that was quite un- 
usual to him. 

“ So, Richard, you are come at last,” he said as they 
shook hands. “ I am glad to see you, and I think I may 
say as much for my kind friends here.” And with that he 
introduced him to the sisters. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


197 


The visitor was evidently quite unaccustomed to society. 
As he took each lady by the hand he stared at her with 
unconcealed curiosity, and detained it in his grasp much 
longer than is common on a first acquaintance ; upon 
Grace he stared with an undisguised but by no means rude 
admiration ; it was like the natural admiration exhibited 
by the savage. 

“You must excuse,” he said with an awkward smile, 
and in a hoarse voice, that spoke even more of ill-health 
than his wasted frame and the glitter of his eyes, “ what 
you find amiss in my manners ; I have not seen a lady for 
these ten years ! ” 

“ My brother Richard has been a backwoodsman,” ex- 
plained Mr. Roscoe curtly. 

“Well, scarcely that, Edward,” he replied drily; “you 
are doubtless thinking of the wild man of the woods ; I 
have been a hunter on the prairie.” 

Agnes exclaimed, “ How interesting ! ” Philippa laugh- 
ingly observed, “ Like Leather-stocking.” Grace regarded 
him in thoughtful silence ; she remembered that Walter 
Sinclair had described his father as having followed that 
calling, and expressed his own admiration for it. 

“ There is not much to hunt here, Mr. Richard, I fear,” 
continued Agnes, “ except the hill fox ; but you are doubt- 
less a fisherman, and we can promise you some sport in 
that way ; and I dare say Grace, who is our mountaineer, 
will act as your guide over the hills. Anything we can 
do for Mr. Roscoe’s brother will give us pleasure.” 

The new-comer looked up with gratified surprise. 

“I wish your sister a better office, Miss Tremenhere, 
but I thank you kindly.” 

There was nothing of cringing or humility in his tone ; 
but it was unmistakably one of astonishment at the nature 
of his welcome, as also of the surroundings. He seemed 
amazed at finding his own reflection in the mirrors (of 
which there were many in the drawing-room, for poor 
“Josh’s” taste in ornamentation had been French and 
florid), and now and then cast furtive glances at the gilded 
ceiling as though wondering how the gold had been made 
to stop on it. 

“ How long have you been in England, Mr. Richard ? ” 
inquired Agnes presently. 

“ In London only forty-eight hours ; I came straight up 


THE BURNT MILLION 


198 

from Liverpool, and only remained in town just to buy 
these things,” and he looked down at his shop suit with a 
painful sense of their inadequacy to the occasion. 

“ It was very good of you,” continued Agnes graciously, 
“ to leave all the attractions of town to come down to us 
at once.” 

The new-comer looked embarrassed, and turned an in- 
quiring glance towards his elder brother. 

“ I ventured to tell him that he would be welcome here,” 
explained Mr. Roscoe ; “ and he was naturally, I hope, 
desirous to see me, after the lapse of so many years.” 

il It could hardly be otherwise,” observed Philippa. 

u We are most pleased, I’m sure,” chimed in Agnes. 
And Grace too smiled acquiescence. 

All which was a proof indeed of Mr. Roscoe’s influence 
with the family, for it is one thing to welcome one’s friend, 
and quite another to welcome one’s friend’s friend. 

With all the good-will in the world, however, to put 
their guest at his ease, the sisters found it a little difficult. 
There were, of course, excuses for him ; he had not been 
used, as he himself had owned, to society ; he knew 
nothing of his entertainers ; after so long a separation even 
his brother could have hardly seemed familiar to him ; but 
all these pleas having been allowed, it was still felt by the 
two elder ladies that Mr. Richard Roscoe was a little 
awkward ; perhaps he suffered by comparison with that 
complete self-possession and ease of manner which they 
could never sufficiently admire in his elder brother ; Grace 
thought him only shy. She pitied him, because she under- 
stood that he was poor, and had suffered privations. Her 
interest was always attracted by such persons, just as 
natures of another kind are attracted by those who are 
rich and prosperous. Yet even she too experienced a 
certain sense of relief when Mr. Roscoe took his brother 
away to the supper that had been prepared for him in the 
lodgings where he was to be bestowed. 

The night was moonless and very dark. It would have 
been no easy matter even for one well acquainted with the 
grounds about the house to have found his way to the 
cottage without damage to the flower-beds, if not to him- 
self ; but what seemed much more beautiful and striking 
to the dalesman than any wonders of mere and fell that 
had met his eye that day, the whole garden was lit by ga$- 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


199 


lamps. This too was owed to the taste of the departed 
Josh. The gas, of course, was made at home, or rather in 
a little wood apart from the house, which hid what was 
unsightly in the means of its manufacture ; but the lamp- 
posts, very nicely gilded, had been imported from London. 
It was no wonder that Mr. Richard Roscoe opened his 
mouth as well as his eyes in astonishment at these artificial 
splendors. 

“Well, I am darned! this beats all!” he murmured, 
with hushed amaze. 

At which involuntary tribute of admiration Mr. Edward 
burst out laughing. It was not a pleasant laugh, which 
was not his fault, for he had scarcely any experience in 
laughing, but it was a genuine one. The astonishment of 
his relative at finding him in such very luxuriant clover 
tickled him, because it was a compliment to the intelli- 
gence which had placed him there ; it was only himself 
who knew that his position was not quite so enviable as it 
appeared to be, and it gratified him to see it thus so fully 
recognized by one incapable of pretence or any stroke of 
diplomacy. It even pleased him to see the wonder with 
which this simple hunter of the prairies regarded the glass 
and silver upon the table laid for his entertainment, and 
the obsequiousness of the servant in attendance. 

“ If I had known of your arrival I would have got you 
something better for supper,” observed Mr. Edward slily. 

“ Better ! Why I have not sat down to such a meal 
these five years.” 

The answer was a little beyond the other’s expectation. 
“ You need not wait, Thomas,” he observed curtly ; “ I will 
look after Mr. Richard myself.” 

It struck him a moment too late that it had been rather 
indiscreet in him to let the footman know that any brother 
of his had not been used to luxury from his cradle. He 
did not shut his eyes to the probability of the members 
of the Tremenhere household regarding him from quite 
another point of view from that of their mistress or mis- 
tresses ; and though he was not one to care much for the 
opinion of the servants’ hall, he felt it was foolish to have 
given them a handle for gossip. Slight as had been the 
incident, it sufficed to put a stop to the late feelings of 
self-glorification in which he had permitted himself to 
indulge, and tg replace him in his usual attitude of cold 
serenity, 


200 


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“ You have not brought much luggage with you, Dick, 
I noticed,” he observed, lighting a cigar, while the other 
attacked the viands. 

“ And yet it looks more than it is,” reply the other 
frankly. “ I did not dare bring down the things I came 
over in ; so the portmanteau is half empty.” 

“ The portmanteau ! If you had only given me time 
I would have seen that you had five portmanteaus.” 

“ Then you would have had to send me the money to 
buy them. I am stone broke.” 

“ I suppose so. Look here, Dick : you must never be 
without money in your pocket.” He now unlocked a 
drawer, and, taking out a handful of sovereigns, placed 
them beside his brother’s plate. 

The other colored to his forehead. “ I was only joking,” 
he said, with an air of annoyance, and even of distress. 
“ I am not a schoolboy, that I should take a tip, like 
that.” 

“ Take it as a loan then. You will very likely have no 
need to spend it ; but it will not do for you — or, if you 
prefer that way of putting it, for vie — to be without ready 
money. Ten pounds, man — what do you suppose is ten 
pounds, or a hundred, or a thousand, for that matter, to a 
man in my position? — and I don’t choose my brother to 
be penniless.” 

“ That circumstance did not seem to distress you very 
much at one time,” returned the other drily. 

The reply was unexpected, and for a moment Mr. 
Edward’s face looked very unlike that of a host — even a 
host at somebody else’s expense ; but the frown cleared 
away as quickly as it came. 

“ That’s quite true,” he answered, laughing ; “ but cir- 
cumstances alter cases. If there was ever a time when we 
were like two beggars fighting for a crust, forget it. I 
have now, at all events, not only the will but the power to 
make you ample amends.” 

“ I do not wish to live upon your bounty, Edward,” was 
the cold rejoinder ; the speaker’s eyes were looking at the 
little heap of gold with marked disfavor. 

“ I wish I had given him a hundred,” was the other’s 
reflection ; “ it is merely avarice that takes this mask of 
pride.” 

“You gave me to understand that if I came over here I 
should find employment of some kind.” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


201 


“ So you shall, Dick. Do not fear that you will not be 
worth your wages.” Then added to himself, “ I do believe 
he is the same tom-fool he ever was ; and I’m another to 
have ever sent for him on the belief that he could have 
altered.” 

“ But I should like to know what the employment is ? ” 
persisted Richard. He had not the resolution of his 
brother, the dogged determination that can tire out all 
ordinary opposition, and almost reverse the adverse decrees 
of fate ; but he was not without a strain of it, as the other 
knew. 11 When you wrote to me upon the matter, you 
spoke of it as being something well worth my while — or, 
as you expressed it, ‘ any man’s while ’ — but you did not 
even hint at what it was.” 

“That is quite true, Dick; it was something that I 
could not set down in black and white.” 

“ Then I won’t do it. I have been in trouble once — 
thanks to you — and that is enough,” was the vehement 
rejoinder. “ It shall never happen again — of that you may 
take your oath, Edward ; or, rather, I will take my oath, 
which is much surer.” 

“ I forgive you your unbrotherly sentiments,” answered 
the other quietly, in tones the quiet calmness of which 
contrasted strangely with the other’s passion ; “ the more 
so since I admit that there is some cause for them ; but 
what I cannot understand is how a person of your intelli- 
gence can suppose me capable of making any proposition 
such as you hint at. You may say, of course, ‘ But you 
have done things of that kind,’ to which I reply it is true 
that an individual of my name once did them — a wretched 
penniless adventurer — but he has nothing whatever in 
common with the person who is now addressing you. You 
have seen with your own eyes what I am here — the confi- 
dence in which I am held by your hostesses, who are the 
mistresses of millions. Can you think me such a fool as to 
risk it by doing anything discreditable ? ” 

“ I am speaking of what you may want vie to do,” 
answered the other, to whom wine and good cheer seemed 
to have given both strength and spirit. “You have con- 
fessed just now that you could not set it down in black and 
white.” 

“ How could I ? It was a very delicate business, 
though one that was entirely free from illegality of any 


202 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


kind. Unhappily, your long delay has, I fear, caused the 
part I intended for you to be filled up by another. I can 
now promise you nothing so splendid ; but there is much 
work to be done, of part of which you can relieve me, in 
connection with the Tremenhere estate, which, for the pre- 
sent at all events, will give you profitable occupation.” 

“ Out-of-door work, of course, I could do — overlooking 
and so forth — and I know something of grass-farming.” 

“ Your talents will, I am sure, be most useful,” said the 
other drily. 

“Mr. Tremenhere, I suppose, made you his executor?” 
observed Richard after a pause. 

“Not a bit of it,” answered the other, with a contemp- 
tuous smile. “I have made myself what you see I am; 
and you have not seen me at my best even yet,” he added, 
with a sudden burst of pride. 

“ What ! Thane of Cawdor that shall be King of Scot- 
land ! You mean to marry one of them, do you? ” 

“ There are things more unlikely to happen in the world 
than that, Dick. To tell you the honest truth, I was at 
one time in hopes that you might have married the 
other.” 

“ The other ? You mean Miss Philippa, I suppose, 
since I can hardly flatter myself I could have captivated 
the young one.” 

“ Well, yes, Miss Philippa, of course. But all that's 
over now.” 

“ She’s engaged, is she ? ” 

“ Well, in a manner, yes ; but she doesn’t like it talked 
about.” 

“ And you are to marry Miss Agnes ? ” 

“ I never said so. I have no right to say so. I only 
said that there were things more unlikely to happen ; and 
you must understand that even that was said in the strict- 
est confidence. Come, it’s getting late, and we are early 
risers at Halswater. How is your room? I hope you 
think it snug enough.” 

“ Snug ! ” said Richard, rolling his hollow eyes about 
what was certainly a very handsome apartment. “ I feel 
like Christopher Sly in the play.” 

“Or like Mr. Squeers in his Sunday clothes/’ replied 
Mr. Edward, laughing, “ astonished at finding yourself so 
respectable,” 


THE BURNT MILLION \ 


203 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

AN INEXPLICABLE ALARM. 

The most prudent and scheming folk cannot make provi- 
sion for everything, and especially for what they may say 
or do themselves in a moment of impulse. 

For many months Mr. Edward Roscoe had been in 
expectation of some such a meeting as that which had just 
taken place between himself and his brother. A less con- 
fident man would perhaps have rehearsed his own part in 
it beforehand ; but, though he was by no means one to 
trust to the inspiration of the moment, he had not dreamt 
of taking such a precaution. He had always been Richard’s 
superior (and, to say truth, had treated him as if he was), 
and somewhat despised his intelligence. He had not made 
allowance for the independence of character which the 
knocking about in the world for years gives to a man who 
may have had but little of it to start with. He had 
expected to find him as clay to the hand of the potter, and 
he had found him rather stiff clay; he foresaw that he 
should have more trouble with him than he expected, and, 
on the whole, was sorry he had sent for him. He regretted 
now that he had given way to the temptation of boasting 
to him of his own position ; his pride of place had caused 
him, he felt, to be unnecessarily confidential. It was foolish 
of him to admit, or rather to allow Richard to guess, that 
he had marriage with Agnes in his eye ; for once, moved 
by impulses of which he was now rather ashamed, he had 
been both frank and truthful. He had really sent for his 
brother with the object he had mentioned, directly he had 
become aware of the contents of Mr. Tremenhere’s will ; 
but the wife he had designed for him was not Philippa but 
Grace. At that time the latter had had no suitor, and it 
struck Mr. Edward that she could not do better than ally 
herself with one who would be under his own control, and 
with whom matters could be made easy. As he remem- 
bered Richard, he was a handsome young fellow, not with- 


204 


THE BURNT MILLION 


out spirit, though always inclined to lean upon another 
rather than trust to his own resources ; somewhat senti- 
mental in feeling, and very impressionable to female beauty. 
Fortunately, since Lord Cheribert had stepped into the 
vacant place, he no longer wanted his brother for this pur- 
pose, for indeed he now seemed quite unfitted for it. To 
his eyes he looked a broken man, worn out by fatigues and 
ill-health, which had also made him irritable and difficult 
to deal with. -He had, it is true, suffered certain wrongs 
at his elder brother’s hands ; but that was long ago ; and 
since Edward had shown a disposition to make amends, it 
was Richard’s duty (as, indeed, he had hinted to him) to 
forget them, and make himself useful to his patron. In 
time, and with kind and judicious treatment, this would 
doubtlessly come about ; and in that case it would not be 
a matter to be deplored that he had thus made a confidant 
of him, as respected his own matrimonial designs, from the 
first. 

It would be of immense advantage to him to have at the 
Hall one whose interests were his own, for he was well 
aware that, with the exception of its two mistresses, there 
was no one at Halswater Hall on whose good-will he could 
rely. Though he had nothing to complain of from Grace 
herself, he felt that he could hardly count upon her per- 
sonal regard as of old. Her intimate relations with Mr. 
Allerton, his declared enemy, forbade it. This was an- 
other reason why he was anxious to get her a husband as 
soon as possible, who would remove her from the scene of 
his operations. If she had really any tenderness for Lord 
Cheribert, which he did not doubt, he was confident that, 
so far as she was concerned, the immense pecuniary loss 
which her marriage would cause her would weigh with her 
not a feather ; nor from what he knew of Lord Cheribert 
did he think that if even he was made conscious of that 
fact that it would seriously affect his intentions. The 
young man was reckless and headstrong, and had always 
been wont to please himself at any cost ; his noble father, 
of course, would entertain the strongest objections to such 
a match without the gilding, but the young man’s career 
had been one long opposition to the paternal wishes. 

Mr. Allerton’s views, if they were adverse, would be of 
much more consequence, since he enjoyed the confidence of 
both the young people ; but in Mr. Allerton lay Mr. Ros- 


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205 


coe’s chief hope ; it was, he believed, in the lawyer’s power 
to set aside the conditions of Mr. Tremenhere’s will, and 
if that were effected he would be satisfied, though in a 
different manner than that which he now contemplated. 

Unconscious of the large share she occupied in Mr. 
Roscoe’s thoughts, and having nothing in common with 
them, Grace Tremenhere recommenced her home life 
(for in spite of the comparatively short time she had 
resided there every year, she had always looked on Hals- 
water as “ home ” ) much as she had been wont to pass it, 
though under changed conditions. There was no father 
now to saunter about the garden with his “ little Fairy,” or 
to tempt to wander further afield ; his sedentary habits 
had hitherto often prevented her from taking the long 
walks over the fells in which her soul delighted, and which 
she undertook with perfect fearlessness. She knew her 
way, as her sisters said, “ blindfold,” and indeed so it al- 
most seemed to their town-bred fancy ; even in the hill 
fogs, of which, however, she had had as yet no serious 
experience, she rarely lost her bearings, and had been 
termed in consequence by some chance visitor at the inn 
“ the Maiden of the Mist.” It was curious how much 
oftener than before her wanderings now took the direction 
of the inn — not the direct road which ran by the lake side, 
but some mountain path or mountain where there was no 
path, from which in the far distance the white-walled 
“ Welcome,” set in its emerald dale, could be seen gleaming 
like a star. 

The first snow had not yet fallen on the fells, but the 
mists were growing more frequent, and Autumn, though 
there were few leaves to show the mark of her “ fiery finger,” 
was coming on apace. The air was rich and heavy with 
the scent of it, and, though not unwholesome to those in 
health, already perilous to those of feeble lungs. The cir- 
cumstance was not unwelcome to her, since it afforded her 
a good excuse for not becoming that mountain guide to 
their new visitor which her sisters had promised for her. 
Mr. Richard Roscoe was, for the present at all events, 
distinctly an invalid ; he had a churchyard cough (as his 
brother humorously termed it), found mountain climbing 
much too laborious, and the damps of evening injurious. 
She was sorry for him, for he was of a roving nature, had 
spent the later years of his life more out of doors than in, 


20 6 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


and inaction was irksome to him ; but just now the com- 
panionship of anyone, and especially of a stranger, would 
have been very obnoxious to her. She preferred to think 
her own thoughts — vague, and often sad as they were — in 
the free air of hills, to making polite conversation. It was 
her custom, after the occupations of the morning, which 
generally included visits to the sick in the neighboring 
hamlet, to dedicate the afternoon to nature in a long ramble 
with the faithful Rip over the fells. In a few weeks more 
there would be no rambling of that kind : the hollows of 
the hills would be filled up with snow, and their summits 
cold and icebound ; but in the meantime she enjoyed her 
mountain walks immensely. Though she was no poet, and 
the cataract could not be said to “ haunt her like a passion,” 
she took great pleasure in the foaming becks, and the steep 
sheer precipices down which they plunged. Her eye was 
keen, her foot was sure, and fear was unknown to her. 
Not seldom had she found the sheep “ crag fast,” and told 
the shepherd of the danger of his missing charge. Such 
scenes, such pleasures, were a hundred times more grate- 
ful to her than the amusements and dissipations of the 
town. Her role of “ heiress ” was singularly unsuited to 
her, and but for the benefits which, thanks to Mr. Allerton, 
she was enabled vicariously to diffuse, it gave her no plea- 
sure. All that she had seen and heard since her father’s 
death of the effects of wealth had engendered contempt 
and dislike of it. It had been the cause of her sisters’ dis- 
respect to his memory, and, as she vaguely perceived, of 
their hostility to one another. Perhaps she had even a 
presentiment that it might one day prove an obstacle to 
the dearest though unconfessed desire of her soul. 

Although Grace was glad to escape from the threatened 
companionship of Mr. Richard Roscoe in her walks, his 
society at times was far from displeasing to her ; and 
indeed, though it could scarcely be called an acquisition, 
it had for the whole family at Halswater a certain sense of 
relief. His presence, as in the case of the former visitors 
at Elm Place, was a restraint upon the hostility with which 
the two elder sisters unhappily regarded one another, and 
which seemed to increase day by day. It afforded his 
brother opportunities of escape from their continuous 
appeals against one another. For Grace, too, at least 
Richard had also an attraction of his own. Independent 


THE BURNT MILLION 


207 


of the obvious delicacy of his health that claimed her pity, 
there was a melancholy about him which bespoke her 
sympathy. She felt sure that some recollection of his past 
gave him acute mental pain, though he did his best to 
conceal it, and she had reason to suspect, from a word 
dropped now and again, that this was caused by the 
remembrance of another’s sufferings. That he had suffered 
himself from severe privations, he admitted, though he 
was very disinclined to dwell on them. “ I have had a 
very hard life, Miss Grace,” he once said to her, but it 
did not seem to her to have made a hard man of him. 
She had an instinct that under a rough exterior he carried 
a tender heart. When she had replied on that occasion, 
“ And also, from what your brother tells me, a perilous 
life,” he had answered “ Yes,” then added with a painful 
smile, “You must not ask me to detail my adventures : 
they are nothing to boast of, and would only distress you 
to hear of them.” 

She had an idea that someone dear to him had undergone 
in his company some shocking experience which it was_ 
painful to recall. Even what his brother knew of what he 
had gone through in his wild and wandering life, and which 
Edward was rather inclined to depreciate, as is the custom 
with men of his class (who have often perils enough, but 
quite of another kind than those of the traveler and the 
explorer), was sufficient to establish his courage ; his 
very modesty upon the point corroborated it ; and yet 
Richard Roscoe exhibited at times an utterly groundless 
trepidation. It did not need a medical training to under- 
stand that this was the consequence of some shock to the 
nerves. His sleep was disturbed by terrible dreams — a 
circumstance which it was impossible to conceal from the 
servants at the cottage. “ Poor Richard is frightened by 
shadows,” Mr. Roscoe used rather contemptuously to 
observe, “ though, to do him justice, I believe, by nothing 
else.” 

Just now he was really too much of an invalid for much 
exertion, and it was difficult to believe, what was never- 
theless the fact, that when in health he had possessed 
thews of steel and nerves of iron. On one occasion, how- 
ever, it happened that a horse was brought for Mr. Roscoe 
to “ trot out,” for his own riding. The groom who led it up 
to the door warned him that in his opinion it was a nasty 
one, of a bad temper. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


2o& 

“ Why do you say that ? ” 

“ Well, sir, he has thrown two men in the yard 
already.” 

“ Then you had better try him yourself instead of me/’ 
suggested prudent Mr. Edward. The groom mounted, 
not very willingly, and after a second or two of “ masterly 
inaction,” the creature sprang into the air with its fore 
legs brought together like those of a chamois on a crag, 
and cast the man over his head. 

“A buck-jumper, by Jingo!” exclaimed the invalid, 
who, with the ladies, was watching this performance from 
the porch, and in three strides he was by the horse’s side, 
and had vaulted on his back in a second. 

It seemed almost like a miracle performed by a cripple ; 
but still greater was the wonder of the beholders when, as 
the animal bucked again and again, with his head so low 
that he looked headless, they saw the rider maintain his 
seat as though he and his steed were one. In the end the 
man tired out the horse, who for the time was completely 
subjugated, and having descended from the saddle in safety 
Mr. Richard fainted away. Among the out-door servants 
at the Hall he became from that moment, what his bro- 
ther had never been to his valet-de-chambre , a hero ; and, 
indeed, the feat made no slight impression even on the 
ladies. Physically, it did him no good, since for days 
afterwards he felt the effects of it. One afternoon Grace 
sacrificed her walk, and took the invalid in her pony- 
carriage for a drive by the seaside. For this act of kind- 
ness he was more than grateful, and as they drove along 
he became more confidential than he had hitherto permit- 
ted himself to be. He spoke of his aimless and broken 
life in a manner that touched Grace keenly, but with a 
conviction of its hopelessness that seemed to forbid a word 
of encouragement. 

“ I was never much,” he said in his queer fashion, “ and 
could never have come to much ; so after all it don’t much 
matter.” 

About his brother’s connection with his affairs he was 
reticent, but he owned that he was under a great obligation 
to him for having invited him to Halswater. “ Without 
it,” he averred that he would have had no more chance 
of mixing with such society as he had found than of “ get- 
ting to heaven ” — a contingency he seemed to consider 


THE BURNT MILLION, 209 

exceedingly remote. He never spoke of Walter Sinclair, 
and Grace did not venture to touch upon that subject ; 
she shrank from exhibiting her interest in him to one who, 
from what Walter had said, had after all been his father’s 
friend rather than his own. Once he let fall a congratula- 
tory word about Lord Cheribert, but upon perceiving the 
subject to be unwelcome to his companion immediately 
dropped it; not, however, without a glance of pleased 
surprise, which afterwards recurred to her with signifi- 
cance. He seemed to her somehow to read her real feelings 
as regarded the young lord, and to express his satisfaction 
that he had not found favor in her sight ; a circumstance 
probably due to what it was only too likely he had heard of 
Lord Cheribert’s mode of life. Yet, if so, it was somewhat 
strange that Mr. Richard Roscoe, of all men with a past, 
should be masquerading as Mrs. Grundy. There were 
things, however, stranger than that about him, as she had 
presently cause to know. 

The proposed limit of their drive was a certain little 
country town, in the environs of which there was a field in 
which, as it happened, a traveling circus had pitched its 
tent. As they neared it, certain sounds shrilled from 
within it, which overcame the concert of drums and 
trumpet without. 

“ Great heavens ! " exclaimed Richard Roscoe, “ did 
you hear that ? ” 

“ I heard someone holloaing,” replied Grace ; “ there is 
some equestrian performance going on : the people are 
cheering.” 

“ No, no,” replied her companion, at the same time, to 
her extreme astonishment, laying his hand upon the reins ; 
“ it is not that ; it is something quite different. Would 
you oblige me by turning back — pray let us go home.” 

She assented, of course. The speaker’s face was pale, 
and greatly agitated. The dew even stood out upon his 
forehead. For the moment she had feared for his reason ; 
but directly the pony’s head was turned the vehemence of 
her companion’s manner disappeared. His expression of 
alarm, and as it had even seemed of panic, was succeeded 
by one of exhaustion and distress ; he lay back in the 
vehicle as one reclining in an invalid carriage. They 
drove a mile or more in total silence. 

Then he said : “ Miss Grace, you must think me out of 


210 


THE BURNT MILLION 


my mind ; it is only that something which occurred yonder 
awoke a very painful association. You have forgiven me 
for my foolish conduct, I know.” 

“ There was nothing to forgive in it,” she answered, 
mustering up a smile. 

“ It is kind of you to say so ; but you are always kind. 
May I still further trespass upon your good-nature by 
asking you to say nothing of the — to you doubtless unac- 
countable — weakness of which I have been guilty ? ” 

She promised silence, of course, and kept her promise ; 
but it would have been contrary to human nature had not 
her curiosity been aroused by the incident. She took 
some pains to discover what sort of entertainment was 
then going about that part of the country ; but all she 
gathered was that it was a circus, consisting of the usual 
performing steeds, a tribe of wild Indians (probably Irish)-, 
and “ the champion huntress of the Rocky Mountains,” a 
young lady scantily attired, for that inclement region, in 
tights. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE HILL FOG. 

For the next few days after his drive with Grace, Mr. 
Richard confined himself to the cottage, under the plea of 
indisposition, and Grace would perhaps have forgotten 
what she was nevertheless persuaded had been its cause, 
but for a paragraph that happened to meet her eye in the 
county newspaper. It had the sensational heading of 
“ Mysterious Attack upon an Indian Chief,” and described 
how one of the members of a traveling circus, taking a 
Sunday walk on the hill in the vicinity of the neighboring 
town, had been set upon and severely beaten by some 
unknown person. 

Robbery could not have been the motive — indeed there 
was little beyond a blanket and feathers to steal ; and it 
was the Chief's opinion that nothing less than murder had 
been intended ; he had thought himself lucky to save his 
scalp. 

The paragraph escaped the attention of the other mem- 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


21 


bers of the family, and Grace forbore to refer to it, lest the 
mind of the invalid should be led to revert to a subject it 
was obviously better he should forget ; and the incident 
made the less impression upon her because of certain 
circumstances which just now took place in connection 
with her own affairs. The Tremenhere ladies had not 
only not been brought up in the strict sect of the Pharisees 
(notwithstanding the terms of their father's will), but had 
been left very much to their own devices ; they had read, 
for example, pretty much what they pleased, nor had any- 
one ever dreamt of forbidding them the daily newspaper. 
At Halswater (where, however, they did not get it till the 
next day) it was eagerly perused by all of them, as the 
link which united them to the outside world. 

On a certain afternoon, when Grace took it up as usual 
in the library, where her sisters were sitting, she found that 
it was two days old. 

“ Where is yesterday’s newspaper ? ” she inquired of 
Agnes. 

“ It has not come to-day, my darling,” replied her sister. 

Her tone, Grace thought, was unusually kind and tender. 

“ But indeed I saw Philippa with it,” she answered. 

“No, my dear,” said Philippa, patting Grace’s cheek 
with her hand, an unwonted mark of sisterly affection in 
her also, “ that was the old copy. No newspaper came to- 
day ; we shall doubtless get two to-morrow.” 

Mr. Roscoe, who had opened the post-bag according to 
custom, confirmed this statement ; but nevertheless the 
missing paper never turned up. 

The incident made little impression on Grace, but the 
increased affection in the manner of her sisters, which 
continued to be manifested to her, did not escape her 
attention. Even Mr. Edward, who was always paternal in 
his behavior to her, seemed to catch from them this 
epidemic of tenderness. 

If there was an exception in the general domestic 
attitude towards her it was that of Mr. Richard. Ever 
since their little adventure together he had seemed to shun 
her society, but now he appeared absolutely to shrink from 
it. There was nothing, indeed, of antagonism or dislike 
in his manner; on the contrary, it seemed rather to arise 
from an excess of modesty, and the sense of his own 
unworthiness. He seldom spoke to her, but sometimes 


212 


THE BURNT MILLION 


she caught his eyes fixed upon her with an earnestness that 
suggested a much closer study of her than she had dreamt 
of ; but in this too there was nothing inquisitive or imper- 
tinent. The expression of his face, as that flush of 
recognition had shown it to her, was one of tenderness, 
but also of profound pity. It had nothing of selfishness 
about it, and yet she felt strangely disinclined to ask its 
explanation. Even with her sisters she maintained a strict 
reticence as respected their change of conduct ; for it some- 
how came into her mind that the continued delay of Lord 
Cheribert to pay his promised visit was at the bottom of 
it. 

Perhaps they had heard that he did not intend to come 
at all, and were keeping the news from her, under the 
mistaken idea that it would be a disappointment that 
would wring her very heartstrings. If so, this would 
explain Mr. Richard’s sympathy, for, as she knew from his 
reference to him when they were driving together, he had 
been informed of her supposed attachment to the young 
lord. She was too sensible to resent it, since it was obvious 
that he meant well ; but of course it was disagreeable. 

What corroborated Grace’s views of this matter was that 
she noticed more than once, on her entering the room 
where her sisters and Mr. Roscoe were sitting together, 
that her arrival caused them to suddenly break off their 
conversation and start some other topic. If her surmise 
was correct, this was only to be expected ; but what did 
astonish her very much was that Mr. Richard was actually 
taken to task by his brother for not pursuing the same line 
of conduct adopted by the rest. This came to her know- 
ledge by the merest accident. 

She was in her boudoir one afternoon — writing a letter 
to Mrs. Linden, who had sent her a pressing invitation to 
visit her at the seaside — when the two brothers passed 
under her window. She loved the fresh air, even when it 
had the bite of autumn in it ; but this was not Mr. Roscoe’s 
taste, and from seeing the window open he naturally 
concluded that she was out of doors. If he had thought 
otherwise he would certainly not have said what he did 
say in her hearing. It was only a scrap of conversation 
as they went slowly by, and she had no time to make her 
presence known to them before it was uttered and they 
had passed by. 


THE BURNT MILLION 


213 


“ I think you are behaving very foolishly to the girl, 
Richard. Why can’t you treat the matter as we do ? ” 

“ Because I can’t feel as you do,” was the quiet reply. 
“ In place of her needing commiseration I think she has 
had a fortunate escape.” 

“ Still, for her own sake it would be only natural if you 
were to show a little sympathy, which some day she would 
be grateful for, and at all events it is the best way to 

recommend ” and then the voices died away as the 

sound of the steps upon the gravel grew faint. 

That these words had reference to herself sne had no 
doubt ; but their meaning puzzled her. What could it 
matter to Mr. Roscoe that his brother showed no sympathy 
about a matter concerning which he had no personal know- 
ledge, and what was it that a contrary course of conduct 
was likely to recommend to her? It never entered into 
her mind that she should be the centre of any scheme or 
plot ; she had no apprehension of danger of any kind ; she 
was conscious of having aroused no enmity, and indeed had 
just now rather to complain of an excess of affection than 
the want of it. . 

But she did feel the need of sympathy very much ; nay 
more, she suffered from a certain sense of isolation, which 
had of late grown more and more intolerable. She had 
never, it is true, had even a school friend ; she had been 
brought up at home, and the home visitors, except perhaps 
Mrs. Linden, had never been much more to her than 
acquaintances. Hitherto this lack of intimates had not 
troubled her, because she had had no secret to share with 
them. But now — now — oh, what would she not have given 
for some loving friend of her own sex to whom to confide 
the tender hope that lay hid in her heart, and the anxious 
fears that hemmed it round ! Under no circumstances 
would she now have confided it to either of her sisters, 
nor perhaps at any time, though in her father’s lifetime she 
had not felt herself so much estranged from them, but 
least of all just now, when the very interest they manifested 
in her was probably caused by a total misconception of 
her feelings. She could give no explanation of it, but 
somehow or other the few words she had just heard fall 
from the lips of the two brothers intensified this feeling of 
isolation. It had been her intention, on sitting down to 
write to Mrs, Linden, to decline that lady’s invitation ; her 


214 


THE BURNT MILLION 


would-be hostess had always been kind to her (as, indeed, 
she would have been to her sisters had they not rejected 
her advances) ; but she felt she had little in common with 
her, and to pay visits when we are out of heart is a melan- 
choly counterfeit of enjoyment indeed. But now even Mrs. 
Linden’s roof seemed preferable to that of home. For the 
present, however, she left the letter unfinished, and since 
it was still early in the afternoon, started at once for one 
of her walks over the fells. More than once Grace had 
found the mere exercise of lung and limb in the open air a 
tonic for the mind, and seldom had she felt the need of a 
tonic more than on the present occasion. 

There would not be many more such walks for her that 
year, she knew. Early as it was, the autumn mists were 
already beginning to rise on Halswater. Upon the south 
side of it rose precipitous cliffs of friable stone, very apt at 
that season to descend in considerable volume, like minia- 
ture avalanches, into the lake, which made the narrow path 
that skirted its dark depths not a little dangerous. In 
clear weather this thin line could be traced to Dale End, 
the very extremity of the mere, where the “ Fisher’s Wel- 
come ” stood, with a handful of stone-built cottages about 
it, and the little church which, but for its tower, might 
have passed for a cottage too ; but now, less than half way 
on its course, the path was lost in a fleecy veil, which was 
not the haze of distance. 

More significant still, on the eastward horizon, as far as 
the eye could range, there was a patch of pure white, 
which a less experienced person might have taken for 
cloud ; but Grace knew better. It was no cloud, but 
would endure for months and months to come, and spread 
and spread till all other peaks were like it — the first snow 
on the Skiddaw Range. Nearer at home there were other 
signs which a good daleswoman like herself could read. 
One of them, had she been inclined to nervous fears, might 
have made her pause. Though the afternoon was fine and 
all the hills stood out as clear as though cut with the chisel, 
Blackscale, one of the outpost mountains which stand like 
sentinels on the sea-coast, was half hidden in mist. There 
is a local proverb, 

When Blackscale has a cap, 

Halse Fell knows full well of that, 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


2*5 


the translation of which is that when the mist settles on 
one it will not be long before it finds the other. And 
Halse Fell was the very spot whither Grace was bound. 
It was the highest mountain in the neighborhood, though 
not nearly so much of a climb to Halswater folk, who were 
themselves very highly placed, as it would have been to 
one starting from the seacoast. Grace herself had often 
been to the top of it and back in a little over three hours. 
She did not now intend to scale its summit, though it 
looked very tempting, but, keeping pretty' much to the 
level to which she had already attained, to circumnavigate 
it, and, striking over its neck, to descend by a well-known 
path into Dale End, and so home by the road. Though 
quite fearless, and confident in her own powers, she was 
not reckless, and much too wise to run the risk of being 
caught by a mist on the top of Halse Fell, a picturesque 
locality made up of precipice alternating with ravine. 

Long before Grace reached the proposed turning-point 
of her journey the sunshine had given place to a grey 
gloom, which yet was not the garb of evening. The 
weather looked literally “dirty,” though she was too little 
of a sailor, and too much of a gentlewoman, to call it so. 
Instead of running on ahead of her mistress and investiga- 
ting the rocks for what Mr. Roscoe (who was cockney to 
the backbone, and prided himself on it) would call sweet- 
meats (meaning sweetmarts), Rip kept close to her skirts. 
Rip had never seen a mart, whether sweet or foul, but, 
when on the hills, he was always buoyed up by the hope 
of seeing, or at all events of smelling, one. Now, on the 
contrary, he seemed to be saying to himself, “ No more 
hunting after these rock carrions. Would it were supper- 
time and all were well, and my mistress and I safe at home 
at Halswater ! ” 

It was ridiculous to suppose that a town-bred dog should 
scent atmospheric dangers upon the mountains of Cumber- 
land ; but his spirits had certainly quitted him with inex- 
plicable precipitancy, and every now and then he would 
give a short impatient bark, which said as plainly as dog 
could speak, “ Hurry up, unless you want to be up here 
all night, and perhaps longer.” 

This strange conduct of her little companion did not 
escape Grace's attention, and though she did not under- 
stand it, it caused her insensibly to quicken her steps. She 


2l6 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


had rounded Halse Fell, and was just about to leave It for 
the lower ground, when she suddenly found herself in 
darkness. The fell had not only put its cap on, it was 
drawn down over its white face as that other white cap, 
still more terrible to look upon, covers the features of the 
poor wretch about to be “turned off” on the gallows. 
The suddenness of the thing (for there is nothing so sud- 
den as a hill fog, except a sea fog) gave it, for the moment, 
quite the air of a catastrophe. To be in cotton-wool is a 
phrase significant of superfluous comfort ; and yet, curious- 
ly enough, it seemed to express better than any other the 
situation in which Grace now found herself, in which there 
was no comfort at all. She seemed to be wrapped around 
in that garment which ladies call “ a cloud ” — only of a 
coarse texture and very wet. It was over her eyes and 
nose and mouth, and rendered everything invisible and 
deadened every sound. 

She could just hear the piercing whine (with half the 
sharpness taken out of it) of the faithful dog at her feet, 
exclaiming, “ Now the London fog had come at last, which 
he had felt in the air for the last ten minutes,” and inquir- 
ing, “ What were they to do now ? ” She didn’t know any 
more than he did. What had happened was beyond her 
experience. She only knew from hearsay that there was 
one danger which cragsmen feared above all the rest 
except the snow-drift, namely the hill fog, and that here it 
was. 

It might clear away in five minutes, and it might last all 
night. To move would be fatal. Should she take one 
unconscious turn to left or right, she was well aware that 
she would lose all her bearings ; and yet, from a few feet 
lower than where she stood now, could she but have seen 
a hundred yards in front of her, she knew there would be 
comparative safety. She could no more see a hundred 
yards, or ten, or five, however, than she could see a hun- 
dred miles. Things might have been worse, of course. 
She might have been at the top of the fell instead of half- 
way down it. She had been in them herself, but not in 
one like this, nor so far from home. But matters were 
serious enough as they were. 

Though there was no wind, of course, the air had become 
very damp and chill. To keep her head clear, to husband 
her strength, should a chance of exerting it be given her, 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


217 


and to remain as warm as possible, were the best, and 
indeed the only things to be done. Keeping her eyes 
straight before her, she sat down, and took Rip on her lap. 

But for its peril, the position was absurd enough ; but 
it was really perilous. Lightly clad as she was, for the 
convenience of walking, she could hardly survive the con- 
sequences of such a night on the open fell. 

Moreover, though she had plenty of courage, her pre- 
vious experience of life unfitted her for such an ordeal. A 
native of the hills would not have been so depressed by the 
circumstances in which she had found herself so unexpect- 
edly placed. To a townsman the want of arrangements 
for lighting the place at night seems always the most 
serious defect of the country — he misses his gas-lamps 
more than anything — but night on the mountains, without 
moon or star, with the sense of having been put in a bed 
with wet sheets added, is a much more serious matter. 
The contrast her situation afforded to anything within her 
experience added vastly to its tragedy. An incident she 
had once read of a clerk in a Fleet Street bank being sent 
suddenly on pressing business into Wales, and all but 
perished the very next night, through a sprained ankle, on 
a spur of Snowdon, came into her mind. How frightful 
the desolation of his position had seemed to him — its 
unaccustomed loneliness and weird surroundings, and 
the ever-present consciousness of being cut off from his 
fellows, in a world utterly unknown to him ! 

She was now enduring the self-same pangs. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

RIP FINDS A FRIEND. 

As the time went by, each minute with the tardiness of an 
hour, and each decreasing, as she was well aware — for was 
it not bringing on the night? — her slender stock of hope, 
it seemed to her that had it not been for the presence of 
her little dumb companion she must even thus early have 
given up the fight. But Rip was more frightened even than 
his mistress, and shivered and moaned, and “snoozled” 
his cold nose in her thin cloak, so piteously, that the 


218 


THE BURNT MILLION 


thought of having something to protect even more helpless 
than herself quickened her energies. The look-out, how- 
ever — if such it could be called, where nothing was to be 
seen ; her own hand held up before her was scarcely 
visible — was gloomy indeed. There had been times of late, 
when, wretched in her isolation at home, and sickened with 
suspense, and the unbroken silence of one she loved in 
secret, death had almost appeared welcome to her ; but, as 
in the fable, now that he seemed to be drawing near to her, 
she shrank from the King of Terrors. 

What would she have given now to be sitting by the fire 
in her boudoir, even though without much cheerful food 
for thought ! The affection of her sisters might not be of 
a very genuine kind, but how truly would they pity her 
could they know of her melancholy position ! Mr. Ros- 
coe himself (though there was little “ love lost ” between 
them) would not be unmoved ; and Mr. Richard, she was 
confident, would be something more than sympathetic. If 
Lord Cheribert could know, too, whether he had thought 
better of coming to Halswater or not, or, as the conduct of 
her relatives almost led her to suspect, had altered his view 
in regard to her — what pangs of pity would he not suffer 
on her account ! how furious he would be with Fate itself, 
that had so cruelly treated her ! He would be as angry 
with the mountains, if she should perish among them, as 
King Xerxes. And above all, what would Walter say ? 
There was no reserve in her thoughts about him now ; why 
should there be, when in all probability they were her last 
thoughts ? She was saying good-bye to Walter though he 
knew it not, and nobody would ever know it. 

She had closed her eyes, as people often do when their 
thoughts are very sad and deep, but opened them quickly 
as the dog gave a sharp quick bark. She looked up, and, 
lo ! there was a small clear space in front of them ; it was 
very limited, and bore the same sort of ratio to the blind- 
ing mist about them as the space swept for a few slides on 
a frozen lake where all else is covered with snow ; but 
space there was, so that she could see her way down to the 
Col — the top of the pass that led to Dale End. She strove 
to rise to her feet, but it was very difficult ; her limbs were 
stiff and numb to a degree that she had not suspected ; it 
seemed to her that she was already half-way to death. 

The dog had leapt from her arms and run forwards, as if 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


219 


rejoicing at its new-found liberty, and she feebly tottered 
after it. With every step she felt strength and hope return- 
ing to her ; a few more yards, and she knew that, if her 
present course could only be maintained, safety, or what in 
comparison would be safety — and swift as the thought of it 
the mist closed round her again like a curtain, and she 
dared not move one step. Her position was locally only 
a little better than it had been, and in one respect a hun- 
dred times worse, for she had lost her little companion. 
In vain she uttered his name in a tone of passionate 
entreaty such as she would have thought it impossible to 
use towards a dumb animal ; it might even be that he did 
not recognize her voice, or, what was more likely, it could 
not pierce the wool-like atmosphere that hid her from even 
his sharp eyes. How idle were all those stories of canine 
instinct, when the poor animal was thus unable to rejoin 
her, though separated by such a little space ! That he 
already yearned to do so she was convinced ; and notwith- 
standing her own miserable condition, she felt a tender pity 
for the little creature deprived of its human friend. It 
would, indeed, probably survive when she should have 
perished, but it would never forget its mistress, or find a 
new one to fill her place ; she loved the dog, not only for 
its own sake but for another’s. 

It was amazing how the loss of this little link to the 
World of life increased her sense of loneliness and despair. 
After her late experience, she dare not sit down again, and 
indeed even yet she had not quite recovered the use of her 
limbs ; she stood, with her arms folded to keep warmth in 
them, and her eyes fixed before her, in feeble hope that 
some current of wind, as before, might lift the veil in front 
of her. 

Then suddenly she heard the dog bark. The very sound 
was cheering to her, but the nature of the sound was 
infinitely more inspiriting ; for notwithstanding the thick- 
ness of the atmosphere, which choked it, and made it 
seem a far greater distance from her than the animal really 
was, she recognized in it an unmistakable note of joy. 
Rip had found something — perhaps even somebody — the 
meeting with which had transported him with pleasure. 
She knew Rip’s bark too well to doubt it ; and she could 
almost imagine the little creature jumping and bounding 
as it gave forth those notes of glee. 


220 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


They were not only repeated but continuous, and with 
an irresistible impulse she pushed through the wall of mist, 
which parted and closed like water behind the hand in 
their direction. She could see nothing, but they sounded 
nearer and nearer, and presently the dog himself sprang 
out of the fleecy veil in joyous welcome, and then sprang 
back again. 

She followed, and presently the figure of a man loomed 
up before her. 

“ Good Heavens ! it is Miss Grace ! ” he cried. 

She answered nothing ; she had recognized him, but the 
shock of joy was too much for her over-taxed energies, and 
she fell fainting into Walter Sinclair’s arms. 

Was it night and a dream ? she wondered, when, having 
presently come to herself, she found the man, on whom 
her thoughts had dwelt so long and tenderly, beside her 
in that desolate place. How could he have got there ? 
Amazing, however, as was the circumstance, it was no 
time for asking questions. For the moment, indeed, her 
vocal powers seemed to have deserted her with all the rest. 
Walter, however, had a flask of sherry in his pocket, and 
administered to her some of its contents, with instantane- 
ous effect. How strange it is that there are persons, others 
wise in their right minds, who (because some people are 
drunkards) persuade themselves that under no possible cir- 
cumstances can wine be beneficial to anybody ! To this 
shivering and nerve-shaken girl it gave new life, and 
instead of “stealing away her brains” recovered them for 
her. 

She wasted no time in congratulations — not unconscious, 
perhaps, that there had been enough of them already, and 
warm ones, upon the gentleman’s part ; it had been so 
necessary, you see, to preserve her circulation — but showed 
her practical good sense at once by the inquiry : 

“ You came up from Dale End, I suppose.” 

“ Yes ; I was bound for the Start valley ; and on the 
Mare’s Back here, as they call it, I believe, the fog caught 
me. As I had noticed there was a precipice on either 
side, I thought it best to stay where I was ; I was getting 
a little tired of waiting when Rip found me. Now, as it 
seems to me, I could wait for ever quite patiently.” 

Grace took no notice of this philosophic reflection. 

“ It is the most dangerous pass in the district — that is, 


THE BURNT MILLION 


221 


to the stranger,” she observed, “ but to one who knows the 
bearings, if one could only find them ” 

“ I have a pocket-compass,” he interrupted ; “ happily 
(or I should not have found you), it was of no use to me, 
but perhaps you can make something of it.” 

It was much too dark for the face of the little instrument 
to be discerned, but Walter had some cigar-lights (there 
are some people, again, who say that smoking is pernicious, 
but they are quite mad), and by help of one Grace made 
out their position. 

“We are facing due east, and must keep straight on,” 
she said with confidence. 

“ In that case you must let me go first,” he answered 
quietly, “for, without presuming to doubt your informa- 
tion, it seems to me, so far as I have been able to keep the 
direction in my mind, that will lead us over the left-hand 
precipice.” 

“ No doubt,” she replied, smiling; “and to turn back 
would lead us over the right-hand one. You have an 
admirable memory, but you are not a dalesman, Mr. 
Sinclair.” 

It was amazing how the speaker’s spirits had come back 
to her. She spoke almost as if she were already out of her 
difficulties, whereas apparently all that had happened was 
a slight improvement in the position. It was as though 
the defenders of some beleagured city had received an un- 
expected reinforcement, which was nevertheless much too 
weak to enable them to make a sally, so that they were 
beleagured still. 

“ I am in your hands, of course,” said Walter. This 
was not quite a correct statement, for Grace was in his 
hands ; or rather her hand was in one of his, while his 
other arm encircled her waist ; it was so important, you 
see, that they should not get separated in the fog ; even 
poor little Rip seemed to understand this, and stuck almost 
as close to them as they were to one another. “ I will do 
exactly as you please ; but it seems to me that we had better 
wait here, where we are pretty comfortable, till the fog 
lifts and shows us where we are going.” 

“ Unless the wind rises the fog will not lift,” said Grace. 
“ At present there is still daylight somewhere, if we can 
only get to it.” 

“ Eastward ho, then, with all my heart ! ” exclaimed 
Walter. 


222 


THE BURNT MILLION 


Then they moved forward very slowly, one foot at a 
time, like folks in the dark on a broad landing feeling for 
the stair. After a few steps they both nearly came to 
grief over a little cairn of stones. 

“ Thank Heaven, we have found it ! ” exclaimed Grace 
delightedly. 

“ That heap of stones ! You are thankful for small 
mercies,” observed her companion, laughing, “for it almost 
tripped us up. And, by-the-bye, there are plenty more of 
them ; I remember seeing thirty or forty of them at least, 
so pray be careful.” 

“ These little cairns are landmarks,” said Grace earnest- 
ly. “ I would rather have found one of them than a 
handful of diamonds. They are placed on this dangerous 
spot for the very purpose of assisting persons in the same 
plight as ourselves to find their way. With ordinary cau- 
tion we ought now to get to Dale End in safety. Again I 
say, £ Thank Heaven ! ’ ” 

“ You must forgive me, dear Miss Grace, because selfish- 
ness is man’s nature, for not echoing that sentiment,” said 
Walter softly. “ I shall never be so happy in my life, I 
fear, as when we were lost upon the hills together.” 

“ It was certainly fortunate for both of us that we found 
one another,” observed Grace with a provoking simplicity. 
“ It would never have happened but for dear little Rip. 
How glad he was to see you ! as, indeed, he ought to be.” 

“ And not one half so glad as I was to see him. I was 
thinking of you the very moment before I heard the dog’s 
cheery bark.” 

“ That is strange indeed,” said Grace, who omitted to 
add that within a few minutes of their meeting she herself 
had been thinking of him . 

“ And yet not so very strange,” he continued softly, 
“ since I have thought of little else for the last three days, 
ever since I have been at Dale End.” 

“ Three days ! ” she replied, in a tone of involuntary re- 
proach ; “ and why did you not let us know at Halswater 
how near you were to us ? ” 

There was a long silence ; Grace could not see her com- 
panion’s face, but she knew it was troubled by some grave 
emotion. 

“ I did not like,” he answered presently, in a tone of 
profound sadness, “ to visit, so soon at least, what I was 
well convinced would be a house of mourning.” 


THE BURNT MILLION 


223 


“ A house of mourning ! ” she repeated wonderingly. 
“ Nothing has happened, so far as I am aware of.” 

“ What ! Is it possible you do not know ? Does it, 
then, fall to my lot, who would give my life to save you 
from a single sorrow, to be the bearer of such evil 
tidings ? ” 

“ Great heavens, do not keep me in suspense, Mr. Sin- 
clair ! Is there bad news ? ” — her voice trembled, her 
head grew sick, as she remembered how she had suspected 
something was kept back from her at the Hall, and it was 
borne in upon her what that something must be — “ Oh, do 
not tell me that anything has happened to Lord Cheribert 1 n 

“ Then I must hold my tongue,” was the sad rejoinder. 

“ Is he — is he dead ? ” she gasped. 

Walter Sinclair bowed his head, as though the man they 
spoke of lay beside them in his coffin. 

“ Yes ; he was thrown from his horse in the steeplechase 
and killed on the spot/’ 

Grace burst into a passion of tears. “ He said it would 
be his last race,” she sobbed, “ but how little did he think 
of it in this way ! What a future seemed to lay before 
him ! And how worthy he would have been of it ! He 
had an honest and a noble heart.” 

Walter Sinclair removed his hat ; he seemed to be 
listening to an eulogy delivered at the grave-side, to every 
word of which he was assenting. 

“ He had not an enemy in the world,” she went on, un- 
conscious of a listener, “but only those who knew him 
knew his worth. But for money — the having too much of 
it, and then the having too little of it, and the company 
among whom it threw him — he would have been a nobler 
and a better man. He lost his life through it. Dead, and 
so young ! Good heavens, it is terrible ! ” 

She was still sobbing ; her frame was strangely agi- 
tated. It was no other motive than sheer fear of her falling 
that caused Sinclair to place his arm around her. 

She shook herself free of him with a sort of frantic 
energy. 

“ No ! ” she cried, “ I will walk alone.” 

He was amazed, for she had not hitherto rejected 
similar assistance ; he could not guess, of course, that she 
was rejecting it now out of respect for the dead man’s 
memory. The young lord had loved her with his whole 


224 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


heart, she knew, though she had not returned his love ; 
and just now, with the tidings of his death knelling in her 
ears, she would not wrong him by accepting another’s 

love. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

HAND IN HAND. 

" Swift as thought,” we say, and yet how little we picture 
to ourselves not only the immense rapidity with which it 
travels, but the amazing variety of the subjects with which 
it deals. In one instant we are communing with our 
Creator, in the next we are colloguing (an Irish term, but 
very appropriate) with the Enemy of Mankind. The 
Curse cuts short the Prayer, or (though not so frequently) 
vice versa. In a flash we have reached heaven, and 
sounded the depths of hell. That every word which a 
man speaks shall one day be cast up against him is credi- 
ble enough, but that every thought of our hearts shall be 
made known is a statement too tremendous for the human 
mind to grasp. If we knew what everybody else was 
thinking about we should probably hold very little com- 
munication with our fellow-creatures ; they would be 
boycotted ; we should say to ourselves, “ We really cannot 
speak to such people. What a mercy it is we don’t belong 
to them.” Even into a young girl’s mind there intrude, I 
suppose, occasionally strange thoughts, things which they 
had rather not — much rather not — utter. As for men, if 
any man says that he has never been frightened by his 
own thoughts, he is either a fool, who never thinks, or a 
liar. 

Within the last half-hour the brain of Grace Tremen- 
here had been busier than it had ever been before within 
the same period of time. There had been occasions — on 
that of the fire in the theatre for example, or that of the 
death of her father — when she had thought more deeply, 
and even more vividly ; but the thoughts that had crowded 
into her mind of late had never been so various as well as 
enthralling. They had, in truth, exhausted her almost as 
much as the physical trials she had undergone. She had 


THE BURNT MILLION 


225 


looked Death in the face, and said good-bye to Love and 
Life. And having found both again, she was dissatisfied 
with them, because the Friendship she had prized so much 
was now no more. It did not occur to her that if Lord 
Cheribert had lived, his pertinacity and perseverance, 
which she never could have rewarded as he wished, would 
have made both her and him very unhappy ; she lamented 
his death, and the manner of it, beyond measure, chiefly 
because it had cut him off from the new and nobler course 
of life he had proposed to himself, but also, no doubt, 
because he had been her lover. Walter Sinclair, very un- 
justly, was not suffering from the misfortune that had 
befallen his rival ; it seemed to Grace a disloyalty to the 
dead man whose grave had but just closed over him, to 
let her heart go forth to meet that of the living man she 
loved, as it longed to do. Nevertheless, the patience and 
gentleness with which he bore her marked change of 
manner and her frigid silence presently moved her to pity. 
As they advanced cautiously from one cairn to another — 
for all was still wrapped in mist — she forced herself to talk 
to him a little. 

“ How strange, indeed, that we should have met here, 
and under such different circumstances from those under 
which we parted, Mr. Sinclair ! ” 

An innocent observation enough ; but it is one of the 
disadvantages of compulsory conversation that even the 
platitudes we use as soon as they have left our lips seem to 
have some embarrassing significance. Directly she had 
uttered the words she felt that they might be referred to 
moral and not material change, the latter of which was of 
course what she had had in her mind. She almost seemed 
to herself to have been saying, “ At that time we did not 
understand one another, did we ? ” and felt the color, 
which fortunately he could not see, flame up in her cheek 
as she waited for his reply. 

“ The place is different, indeed,” he answered gently, 
but as to the circumstances, alas ! I see little change in 
them. What does it matter whether a river or a ravine 
separates a man from the place where he would be, when 
both are alike impassable? ” 

“ I do not understand you,” she murmured. 

“ It is like enough,” was the quiet rejoinder. 11 My 
conduct now appears unintelligible even to myself. I see 

15 


226 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


that it has angered you, and no wonder : you must have 
thought me mad.” 

“ No.” Even a monosyllable may have tenderness in 
it, but this had none. She would give him no encourage- 
ment — just now — but, on the other hand, she would not 
affect to misunderstand him ; above all, she would not 
repulse him as she had once done — a cruelty of which she 
had so bitterly repented. 

“ Then that must be owing to your kindness of heart,” 
he continued, “ which makes allowances for everybody. If 
you had known what I have gone through, it would, I ven- 
ture to think, have not been so great an exercise of charity ; 
but then you have not known. If I promise you that it 
will be the last time that I shall ever refer to it, and that 
to-day will be the last day that you will ever see me, may 
I tell it you, Miss Grace ? ” 

“You may tell it me,” she answered softly. 

“ Then my excuse is that from the first moment I ever 
saw you I loved you. When I remember who you are, 
and what I am, it seems the confession of a madman ; but 
it is the truth. You must consider from whence I came ; 
a place where all social gulfs that sever man from woman 
are passable or can be bridged over ; nor, indeed, was I at 
that time aware of the depth of that gulf, which then as 
now separates you from me ; under the shelter of your 
roof I got to recognize it ; though too late for my own 
peace of mind. You will bear me witness that when I 
took leave of you I dropped no hint of this. My admiration 
I could not conceal, but I hid my love in my breast ; as the 
Spartan boy his fox, I never betrayed the torture it caused 
me. Like him, I was too proud to speak ; for though, 
like my poor father before me, I have been a hunter, a 
fortune-hunter I could never be.” 

Grace was about to speak, but he stopped her with a 
gentle movement of his hand, “ You were going to ask 
me doubtless : 1 But since you were so wisely resolved, 
why did you put yourself voluntarily in the way of temp- 
tation by coming up to Halswater?’ I may honestly say 
that Mr. Allerton is partly to blame for this ; he had heard 
of my intention to visit Cumberland, and pressed me to 
put it into execution that he might have some information 
on which he could rely as to how matters were going on 
with you and yours. He had no suspicion of my own 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


227 


weakness ; if I had told him of it, he would have said, 
kindly disposed though he is towards me, ‘ Do not set 
your affection on the moon, young man,’ and he would 
have been quite right. Nevertheless, what also urged me 
to take this step was, I admit, my own mad folly ; like the 
moth that seeks the flame in which it is doomed to shrivel, 
I could not resist the attraction of it. Nevertheless, I 
exercised some control over myself; when I said that I 
did not come to the Hall because of the sorrow in which I 
knew it would be plunged by reason of Lord Cheribert’s 
death, it was not the whole truth ; prudence also held me 
back — a mere selfish prudence which whispered that ill as 
it was to encourage an illusion, it would be worse to have 
it shattered by one before whom my whole soul bowed in 
reverence. Perhaps but for this chance interview I should 
never have seen you, for I was well aware of the danger of 
meeting you face to face ; I knew that I might forget — 
the gulf that circumstances have fixed between us.” 

“ Do you mean my money ? ” 

She spoke coldly, even contemptuously ; but there was 
an undercurrent in her tone that freed it from offence ; he 
felt that the contempt was not for him. 

“ That is, of course, a very important matter.” 

“ Not to me, Mr. Sinclair ; nor, unless I have much 
mistaken your character, to you. As a matter of fact, 
however,” here she smiled a little, “ the gulf you speak of 
is neither so deep nor so wide as you imagine. It is 
unnecessary to discuss the question, which would have no 
attraction for me ; Mr. Allerton would have put you in 
possession of all such details had you asked him.” 

“ Good heavens, but how could I ask him ! Such an 
idea never crossed my mind ; nor if it had should I have 
dared to utter it. What would he have thought of me ? 
He has at present a better opinion of me than I deserve, 
but in that case he would have had a far worse one.” 

“ I suppose so ; I quite see your difficulty,” she an- 
swered serenely : “ he would have taken a lawyer’s view, 
and misunderstood you.” 

li And you do not misunderstand me ? ” he answered with 
tender earnestness, “and you say the gulf is not so deep 
nor wide between us as I had imagined. Is it possible, 
dare I ask is it possible, that you would give me — no, lend 
me — your hand to help me across it? Or, if that is too 


228 


THE BURNT MILLION 


much, would you mind saying that you are not angry with 
me ? ” 

“ I am certainly not angry with you, Mr. Sinclair.” 

“ Nor even displeased that you have met me ? That is 
all that I ask just now. It may seem a small thing to you — 
in that lies my hope — but it would be such a great thing to 
me. Are you not displeased ? ” 

“ I am not displeased with Rip for finding you ; that is 
as much as you can expect me to say, I think,” she an- 
swered, softly. 

“ It is more than I dared to hope for,” he answered rap- 
turously. “ What a good dog it is ! what a dear dog ! ” 

“ He is not, however, exactly a St. Bernard,” answered 
his mistress, smiling ; “ the discovery of what we call in 
Lakeland ‘ the Smoored ’ is not, I think, the calling that 
best suits him. The poor little creature seems afraid of 
putting one paw before another, and sticks to my skirts 
like a leech.” 

“ In my opinion that is another proof of his sagacity,” 
observed her companion. “ How can he do better than 
stop where he is.” 

“ At all events it behooves us to do better,” returned the 
young lady ; she had fortunately recovered the use of her 
wits at the very time when the young gentleman seemed to 
have taken leave of them. “ This is the last cairn, if I have 
counted rightly, and the mist is as thick as ever, but we 
have now only to keep on descending ; there is nothing to 
break our .necks between here and Dale End.” 

For the moment she had forgotten her late peril, and 
even the evil tidings that had so saddened her; her heart 
had found what it had so long sought for, though her tongue 
had not confessed it. The sunshine that was wanting 
without was resplendent within. Though their way was not 
slippery, at one place Walter was moved to hold out his 
hand to help her ; she took it, and somehow it didn’t seem 
worth while to let go of it, till they reached the level ground ; 
she might possibly have retained it even then, but the fog 
was no longer so thick, and it struck her that since objects 
began to be visible they might be visible to others. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


229 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

NEW LIFE. 

By the time they reached the “ Angler’s Rest ” the sky had 
only the dull hue of an autumn evening, though the hills 
were hidden in impenetrable cloud, which Grace shuddered 
to think might have been her pall. 

The landlord, Jack Atkinson, who came out to greet 
them, exclaimed, “ ’Tis lucky, miss, you were not taking 
your usual walk over the fells to-day.” He took it for 
granted she had come by the road. She did not think it 
necessary to enlighten him on that point ; there was gossip 
even at Dale End, and it would not have been pleasant to 
make her late adventure the food for it. It struck her, 
moreover, that her association with her present companion 
would have to be accounted for. “ Mr. Sinclair is an old 
friend of our family,” she said, in as indifferent a tone as she 
could command. “ I hope you are treating him well at the 
‘Rest,’ Mr. Atkinson.” 

“ Well, indeed, I hope so, miss ; though I didn’t know 
as he was a friend of the Hall folk.” And he looked at 
Sinclair with some surprise. No doubt it seemed curious 
to him that his guest should have stayed at the inn so long 
without referring to that circumstance. Sinclair had no 
such misgivings, and was, indeed, not thinking of his host 
at all. Men in love are so reckless. 

“ You look white and tired, Miss Grace,” said the land- 
lord ; “let me have the dogcart out and take you home on 
wheels.” 

“ A very good notion ! ” exclaimed Walter ; “ permit me 
to have the pleasure of driving you, Miss Tremenhere.” 

“ Thank you very much, Mr. Sinclair,” said Grace, 
politely, “ but I prefer to trust myself to Mr. Atkinson, if 
he will be so good. His horse is spirited, and the road a 
bad one, and he knows them both.” 

She flattered herself (as is generally the case when we do 
something disagreeable to another in hopes of some material 


230 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


benefit) that she had effected quite a master-stroke of policy; 
Atkinson would, she thought, perceive in this preference 
for his company how indifferent to her was that of Mr. Sin- 
clair. Unhappily, the expression of Walter’s face showed 
that he was very far from indifferent to this arrangement. 

“Sorry to cut you out, sir,” said the landlord, with a 
broad grin, “but the lady’s commands must be obeyed,” 
and off he went to fetch the cart. 

“ How could you be so cruel ? ” exclaimed Walter, with 
a melancholy sigh. 

“ How can you be so foolish?” returned Grace, with 
indignation — not, however, very genuine, for she already 
felt pity for his disappointment, as indeed she did for her 
own — “ Do you wish to set all these people talking?” 

“ Oh, I see,” interrupted the young man, with eager, if 
somewhat tardy, intelligence. 

“ Not that there is really anything to talk about” con- 
tinued Grace (which made him all gloom again), “ but 
country gossip is so easily excited. I shall tell my sisters, 
of course, that you are here, and under what circumstances 
I have met you. And I dare say your friend, Mr. Roscoe, 
will bring you an invitation from them to dine with us.” 

She could not resist that little dig about Mr. Roscoe, for 
whom he had always shown a respect which she considered 
beyond that gentleman’s deserts. 

“ I don’t know whether I shall accept his invitation,” 
answered Walter, with a smile that belied his words. 

“ Well, that is just as you please.” The landlord now 
brought out the dogcart, and Walter helped her into it. 
“ His brother, Mr. Richard, whom you said was a friend 
of your father’s, is now staying with us, which will doubt- 
less be an attraction to you. Au revoir , Mr. Sinclair.” 

It was really an excellent piece of acting, but it was a 
mistake to use the French phrase, which the wily proprietor 
of the “ Angler’s Rest ” at once set down as part of a secret 
code of signals established between the young people. 

“ Seems disappointed like, don’t he, miss ? ” he observed 
with confidential slyness, as they left her melancholy cava- 
lier behind them ; then, perceiving his remark was unap- 
preciated, continued in a less personal vein, “ Thinks he 
could have driven the horse hisself as well as I can, no 
doubt. Them Londoners has such a conceit of theirselves. 
Not, however, as I reckon as Mr. Sinclair is a regular Lon- 
doner, though he came from London ? ” 


THE BURNT MILLION 


231 


“ I believe not,” said Grace, seeing a reply was evidently 
expected ; “ he is a friend of Mr. Roscoe’s, who can doubt- 
less tell you all about him.” 

“ And that wouldn’t be much, I reckon, neither,” 
laughed the innkeeper. “ He ain’t much given to talk, 
ain’t Mr. Roscoe. Got his brother with him at the Hall, 
I understand ; looks poorly, don’t he ? And yet has been 
a good sportsman in his time, I warrant ; not like Mr. 
Edward/’ 

Grace began to be sorry, for more reasons than one, 
that she had favored Mr. Atkinson at the expense of his 
rival. The man’s tongue ran like a mill-wheel in flood 
time ; and she trembled to think how it might run upon 
her own affairs as well as those of her belongings. There 
was nothing, she now felt, that could separate her from 
Walter ; but she did not wish that matter to be taken for 
granted, or to reach the ears of her relatives by any out- 
side channel. She had lived so much out of the world, 
that the lively interest which the generality of mankind 
take in other people’s affairs was unknown to her. Per- 
haps, too, she didn’t make allowance for the fact that 
other people who live out of the world (as at Dale End, 
never lose an opportunity of hearing something of it, from 
those they imagine to be possessed of the information. 
She thought it more dignified as well as discreet to remain 
silent ; but even that, as it turned out, afforded no 
security. 

“ Sad thing that about Lord Cheribert at the steeple- 
chase, the other day, was it not, miss ? ” continued her 
companion after a short pause. He was really flattered 
by the preference the young lady had shown him (for he 
had an honest admiration for her), and thought it, perhaps, 
part of his duty (as alas ! so many other folks do) to 
“ make conversation.” “ Mr. Sinchair told me as he knew 
something of him. Broke his neck in a moment, he did, 
and didn’t suffer like young Harris of the fell foot, as 
injured his spine — that is some comfort.” 

“ It was a very, very shocking thing,” murmured Grace, 
stick and shivering. 

“ Very much so ; though to be sure, if all tales are true, 
his lordship was a wild ’un. Ran through half a dozen 
fortunes, they tell me, by help of the Jews — I mean money- 
lenders.” 


232 


THE BURN 7 ’ MILLION 


The last words were spoken in an apologetic tone, and 
the ruddy and weather-worn face of the honest publican 
as he uttered them became a lively purple. He was 
naturally loquacious, as an innkeeper should be, and like 
the pitcher that goes often to the well, he sometimes got 
into trouble through it ; but it seemed to him that he had 
never come to such utter grief as on the present occasion. 
It was only lately that some hint of the late owner of 
Halswater Hall having belonged to the Jewish persuasion 
had percolated to Dale End ; but it had got there, some- 
how, and given a new life to its little community as a topic 
of conversation ; in the kitchen of the “ Angler’s Rest ” 
(for that humble hostelry had no bar-room), Mr. Atkinson 
had found it most agreeable and provocative of thirst ; but 
that he should have made such a slip as to allude to Jews 
in the presence of Miss Grace, whom he pictured to him- 
self as sensitive upon the matter as though if her parent 
had been hung she would have been to an allusion to a 
rope, filled him with remorse and horror. 

Grace knew nothing of the cause, but hailed with grati- 
tude the silence that fell upon her companion in conse- 
quence, and endured till they reached the Hall gates. 
Here she dismissed and recompensed him, and entered the 
long avenue that led to the house on foot. How different 
were her feelings from those with which she had left home 
a few hours before ! What experiences had she since gone 
through ! What fears, what sorrows, what delights ! 
How changed, too, was her material position, for had she 
not found — never, never to be lost again — the beloved of 
her heart ! Her isolation was over ; though the winter 
Was about to fall on things without, with her “all was May 
from head to heel.” The splendors of her home had 
hitherto had small attraction for her, but it now seemed a 
bower of delight. Her path for life would for the future 
be strewed with flowers. 

It is well for us that, now and then, we should have such 
day-dreams, however sad may be the awakening from them. 
If we poor mortals could look into the future the shadow 
of things-to-be would quench all our sunshine. If to Grace 
Tremenhere the events that were about to happen to her 
and hers could have been foretold as they were fabled to 
be of old, the gloom of evening that was now falling 
around her would have worn the darkness of midnight, and 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


233 

the evening moon would have risen above her as red as 
blood. 

But to her mind’s eye all that was not already peace 
was promise. The troubles of the past — for the moment 
even her sorrow for the dead — were forgotten. As her 
eye caught the figure of Mr. Richard coming down the 
avenue, it reminded her, indeed, of the conversation she 
had overheard before setting out on her walk between him 
and his brother, but without recalling the disagreeable 
sensations it had cost her ; she knew no more of what it 
meant than before, but its mystery no longer troubled her. 
Love filled her heart and left no room for trouble. 

Mr. Richard had been walking rapidly, but on catching 
sight of her came on more slowly, as though there was no 
longer need for haste. 

“ I am so glad to see you safe at home, Miss Grace,” he 
said with nervous eagerness ; “ the boatman told me that 
the mist upon the hills was very thick, and I feared you 
had gone that way.” 

“ I hope I have not alarmed my sisters,” she returned 
evasively. 

“ No, they know nothing of it, and indeed I have been 
pacing up and down here to avoid their notice ; I have 
been very much distressed indeed.” 

His countenance corroborated his words ; it was pale 
and agitated with nervous twitchings, and his hollow eyes 
expressed the anxiety that had not yet quitted them. 

“ You are very kind,” answered Grace gently ; “ but 
here I am, you see, safe and sound. It strikes me that you 
are running some risk yourself, Mr. Richard, in being out 
so late in the dewy air after your recent illness.” 

“I! What does that signify?” he answered. His 
tone had a contemptuous bitterness which seemed to in- 
vite comment, but some instinct warned her to take no 
notice of it. 

“ You should take more care of yourself,” she replied 
quietly. “ And as to fears on other people’s account,” 
she added with a smile, “ we should not give way to them. 
Even in our own case how idle are often even our worst 
apprehensions, which nevertheless cause half the unhappi- 
ness of our lives ! ” 

It was not always that Grace took such cheerful and 
sensible views of things, but just now she was looking at 
life through those windows which love paints rose-color. 


234 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


“That is perhaps true/’ returned her companion, but 
with a deep-drawn sigh, and regarding her with a look of 
tenderest pity ; “ but how often, again, is our heart at its 
lightest on the eve of sorrow, as the bird sings its blithest, 
unconscious that the hawk is hovering over it.” 

“That is what our Cumberland folk call being ‘fey,’” 
answered Grace, with a forced smile ; she knew to what 
the other was referring ; the tidings of the death of her 
supposed lover, of which he of course imagined her to be 
still ignorant. She was certainly not called upon to en- 
lighten him upon the point, but she felt reproved at her 
own momentary forgetfulness of the calamity, which his 
words seemed to imply. 

“ I have some good news for you, Mr. Richard,” she 
continued, eager to change the subject for another, even 
though it was not one she would have otherwise been will- 
ing to speak of with a comparative stranger ; “ Mr. Walter 
Sinclair, whose father was, I understand, one of your old- 
est friends, is staying at Dale End.” 

“Indeed! Walter Sinclair ! ” he replied with interest. 
“I should greatly like to see him — indeed it is absolutely 
necessary that I should do so,” he added as if with an 
after-thought. 

“ Then nothing can be easier. He is already a friend 
of the family, you know, and especially of your brother.” 

This was another master stroke of policy of our hero- 
ine’s : let us not blame her for it, but only hope it will 
prove more successful than her last ; it is only natural that 
the weaker sex should employ their little subtleties, which 
have, after all, nothing of hypocrisy about them. Her design 
was — though she had fairly made up her mind that no 
earthly power should keep her and Walter sundered — that 
Mr. Roscoe should himself be made to invite him to the 
cottage. O joy ! — but we must dissemble, for the present 
at least, for sister Agnes is standing at the front door 
awaiting us, unbonnetted, but with a warm shawl thrown 
round her shoulders, for the air is chill. 

“ My dearest Grace, how late you are ! We were getting 
to be quite anxious about you. I am told that there is 
quite a fog upon the fells.” 


THE BURNT MILLION i 


235 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

POOR DICK. 

It was necessary, of course, that Grace should tell her 
sisters of her meeting with Walter Sinclair on the fells, and 
also of the sad tidings he had brought her. As it happened, 
though it would have shocked her to have foreseen any 
such effect in it, the latter communication greatly assisted 
her in the more delicate revelation she had to make to them 
concerning her relations with Walter, and indeed almost 
did away with the necessity of making it at all. The way 
in which she spoke of Lord Cheriberl’s death, though she 
did so with what was evidently the most genuine and 
heartfelt sorrow, yet convinced them they had been in 
error in supposing that she had loved him ; while the man- 
ner in which she referred to Walter convinced them of 
where her affections had been really placed. This was a 
satisfaction to both of them, for in their eyes Grace stood 
in the way of neither of them (whatever Mr. Roscoe might 
think to the contrary) as they did in that of one another, 
and they were really as fond of her as it was in their 
natures to be. They had the turn for match-making com- 
mon to their sex, and now that Lord Cheribert was gone 
(though they would have greatly preferred him for a 
brother-in-law) they were well content (over and above the 
fact that it would be to their pecuniary advantage) that 
Walter Sinclair had found favor in their sister’s eyes. 

“ Of course we will have him here,” said Agnes kindly, 
when the three ladies were alone together after dinner ; 
“ he might almost as well be in London as at Dale End ; 
Mr. Roscoe shall invite him to the cottage, where there is 
plenty of accommodation for another guest ;.and that, you 
know, will settle the matter, so there will be no more room 
for misunderstanding on anybody’s part.” 

“ There is no chance of any misunderstanding between 
Walter and myself,” said Grace rather drily, and with a 
little flush. 


236 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


“ Which is as much as to say,” observed Philippa, 
laughing, “ that you two young people have arranged your 
own affairs together, and are quite independent of the 
interference of anybody ; but nobody,” and here she patted 
Grace’s cheek with her fan, “ is going to interfere, my dear, 
so you need not become a fretful porcupine all of a sudden 
and shoot your quills at us.” 

“ I am sure that Mr. Roscoe, for one, will be certainly 
glad to hear of the matter,” remarked Agnes gravely. 

“ And so am I,” put in Philippa quickly ; neither sister 
could ever confess their acquaintance with Mr. Roscoe’s 
views and opinions without the other claiming to have an 
equal knowledge of them. 

“ He always liked Mr. Sinclair,” continued Agnes, ignor- 
ing the interruption, “and the circumstance that his 
father was such a friend of the young man’s father, though 
unimportant in itself, serves to knit the whole thing 
together very pleasantly.” 

In this, however, Agnes was not altogether correct, to 
judge by a conversation which was at the very moment 
going on in the smoking-room between the two brothers. 
Perhaps it was only by contrast with the good spirits of 
the rest, but Mr. Richard had been even more silent and 
gloomy than usual during dinner, and had confined his con- 
versation chiefly to monosyllables ; and even under the 
consolation of tobacco he bore a very depressed and 
melancholy air. 

“ I am really very sorry for you, Dick,” said his brother 
in a sympathetic tone very unusual to him ; “ I am sorry to 
see you taking your disappointment so to heart, but you 
must see as plainly as I do that the advice I gave to you 
this morning was thrown away. Matters have taken quite 
a different tone — indeed we were going altogether upon 
false ground — and we shall now have to give the whole 
thing up.” Richard groaned, and put his hand before his 
eyes, as if to shield them from the other’s gaze. “Upon 
my life I’m ashamed of you, Dick,” the other went on dis- 
dainfully, “ that a man of your experience of life should 
take on so about a girl, as if there was only one in the 
world.” 

“ There is only one in the world for me,” returned 
Richard passionately. 

“ Then you will be so good as to consider her out of the 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


237 


world,” observed the other peremptorily, “as dead as 
Cheribert ; she is dead to you from this moment, and 
there’s an end of it. I will just show you how the matter 
stands.” 

“ It is unnecessary,” replied Richard in hoarse low 
tones. 

“ Never mind, I’ll state the case, so that there shall be 
no more mistakes about it.” He stood up with a huge 
cigar in his mouth and his back to the fire (as old Josh 
used to stand when he was setting him to rights), while 
his brother sucked at his pipe, with his eyes fixed on the 
carpet. “ We must have the girl married to somebody, 
and as soon as possible. When Cheribert broke his neck 
I thought there was a good chance for you, and, as you 
know, gave you my best advice how to take advantage of 
it. It would have been more agreeable to me, of course, 
that you should have had her than anyone else ; but it 
seems the young lady had already made her choice of a 
man that was alive and well.” He put the last word in 
with a slight stress upon it, as though he would have said, 
“ not a fellow like you, with one leg in the grave.” “ That 
being so, your hope is gone ; we — or I, if you prefer plain 
speaking, and I don’t see why there should be any con- 
cealment about the matter — cannot afford to wait any 
longer for the chapter of accidents, which, indeed, is much 
more likely to turn out against you than in your favor, and 
I mean to bring things to a head as soon as possible. 
Sinclair will be here to-morrow, under this very roof, and 
here he will stay until they are married. That is as sure 
as death. Come, be a reasonable man ; you must surely 
know that you have not a shadow of a chance against 
him.” 

“I know it,” answered the other despairingly, “and 
if I had a chance I would not take it — not against 
him .” 

“ Well, I care nothing about the sentimental aspects of 
the question, but I am glad, at all events, you are arrived 
at such a sensible conclusion.” 

“ I have got a letter for him,” went on Richard gloomily, 
and like one speaking to himself rather than to another, 
“ entrusted to my hands by his father only a few hours 
before he was murdered.” 

“ Murdered, was he ? ” said Edward, with a little start, 


238 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


and some show of interest. “ How did that come 
about ? ” 

“ It is a shocking story, and I cannot tell it you just 
now/’ replied the other, again placing his hands before 
his eyes with a shudder, as though he would have shut out 
some terrible scene. “But when we parted he gave me a 
little packet for his son which he said was of great impor- 
tance.” 

“ And what was in it ? ” 

“It was sealed up ; but if it had not been so I should 
not have dreamt of prying into poor Sinclair's secrets. It 
was a sacred trust.” 

“ Well, you've still got it, I suppose." 

“Yes, but not here. I did not like to carry it about 
with me in my wild and wandering life, but left it in safe 
custody with one on whom I could rely.” 

“ In America ? ” 

“Yes. I am ashamed to say that when I got your sum- 
mons I forgot all about the packet. Not, perhaps, that I 
should have sent for it in any case, since the lad whom it 
concerned was more likely to be there than here. But now, 
of course, I shall send for it at once.” 

“ Quite right. But, if you will be guided by me, I would 
say nothing about it till it comes." 

“ Why not ? " inquired Richard, looking up at his bro- 
ther with a quick suspicious glance. 

“ Well, if it happens to be lost, you see, it will be a great 
disappointment to him, for which he will naturally blame 
you. If he gets it, well and good ; and if he does not get 
it, and if he does not know of it, it will not trouble him." 

“ I have already told Miss Grace that I have been 
entrusted with it.” 

“ That is as good — or bad — as telling him” replied the 
other sharply; “it is amazing to me how a man who 
knows that he is naturally indiscreet should not keep a 
better guard over his tongue.” 

“ Or, before speaking, consult some shrewd adviser who 
has no interest of his own to serve," observed Richard 
drily. 

“ That, of course, would be better still," was the cool 
rejoinder. “ I think you must admit that the person to 
whom you refer has managed matters more successfully for 
you of late than you ever did for yourself.” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


239 


“ It seems so to you, no doubt ; and yet I wish to Hea- 
ven that I had never accepted your invitation to come to 
Halswater.” 

“ Do you ? You prefer potted beef to the flesh-pots of 
Egypt, and a tent-bed to a spring mattress, eh ? It’s a 
queer taste. Well, I am sorry I can't offer you a squaw and 
a wigwam, but you see it can't be done.” 

“ You were giving me some advice about keeping guard 
upon my tongue just now, Edward,” answered the other 
hoarsely, “ I would remind you to keep yours in check.” 

“ Tut, tut, you flame up as quickly as a prairie fire, Dick. 
It would be a bad thing for both of us — but much worse 
for you — if we were to quarrel. I was wrong to poke fun 
at you, of course ; but once the thing was manifestly over 
and gone — done with — I thought you would not be so 
thin-skinned. It is absolutely necessary, however, my 
dear fellow, that you should understand it is done with. 
It will not do for you to remain here in the same house 
with this young couple and let them perceive that you have 
a hankering to cut the bridegroom’s throat. It is neces- 
sary that the course of true love should, in this case, not 
only run smooth, but quickly and without distraction. If 
you have any doubt of your own self-command I will send 
you to some warm place — not to the devil, as some people 
would in my place, but to the Isle of Wight or Torquay, 
for the recovery of your health, for a month or two ; then, 
when they are married and settled, you could come back 
again.” 

“ No, no,” pleaded the other passionately ; “let me be 
with her as long as I can ; it won’t be long in any case. 
I give you my word of honor that neither of them shall 
ever guess ” 

“ Take a drop of brandy, Dick,” said his brother, pour- 
ing him out a wineglassful, and looking at him as he sat 
speechless and breathless, with genuine interest. The re- 
collection had come into his mind of a some>vhat similar 
scene with his old partner “ Josh,” to whom he had admin- 
istered the same remedy ! The parallel, however, was not 
complete ; there was nothing the matter in the case of his 
present patient with the heart itself, but only that its 
emotion had overpowered him. 

“ Don't let us talk about this matter any more, my good 
fellow,” he continued soothingly, “ your word is as good 


240 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


as your bond, I know — and, indeed, a good deal better, oi 
it would not be worth much — and I can rely on you.” 

Grace’s first act on finding herself alone that night was 
to finish her letter to Mrs. Linden ; its conclusion, it need 
scarcely be said, was different from that she had proposed 
to herself a few hours ago, and declined that lady’s invita- 
tion to visit her. There would be a guest at home (though 
she did not give that as her excuse), whom she would not 
have left for many Mrs. Lindens. 

Rip was always accustomed to sleep in her young mis- 
tress’ boudoir, but on this occasion he changed his quarters ; 
she took his wool-lined basket into her own room, and as 
he lay there hunting for sweetmarts in his dreams — and 
with quite as much chance of catching one as when awake 
— she sat far into the night regarding him with tender eyes, 
and thinking of him who had once saved his life at hazard 
of his owfi. But not of him alone. More than once the 
tenderness was dissolved in tears, and then it was not with 
Walter Sinclair that her thoughts were occupied, but with 
that other, who had also been her lover, and on whom 
cruel death had laid its sudden hand in his youth and 
strength. Never more would his blythe voice gladden 
human ear, nor his comeliness delight the eyes of all who 
beheld it ! It is only a very few of us whose life affects 
“ the gaiety of nations,” but it might be truly said of Lord 
Cheribert that into whatever company he came he had 
brought gaiety with him. Moreover, to Grace at least he 
had disclosed a heart tender and true, and capable of noble 
deeds (though, alas ! they had never been accomplished), 
and of generous thoughts, which, let us hope, did not perish 
with him. What had become of them, she wondered, her 
mind straying into unaccustomed fields of thoughts ; and 
of him ? 


the burnt million ; 


241 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A WELCOME. 

Even the next morning, when those dark thoughts of Death 
could probably have been swept away by the Light that 
was to bring love with it — for she knew that Walter was 
to be asked to the Hall that day — they were fated to still 
remain with her ; for before his arrival she received a letter 
from Mr. Allerton, of which Lord Cheribert’s death was 
the keynote. 

" I have had no time to write to you of late, dear Grace, 
nor even the heart to write. I have of course been over- 
whelmed with business in connection with poor Lord 
Cheribert’s affairs, but his loss itself is what has still more 
occupied it. If I had not been a witness to his poor 
father’s misery, I might have written. I have grieved for 
him as if he had been my own son. I liked him exceed- 
ingly, and there was another reason, of which I cannot for- 
bear to speak, why my sympathies were enlisted in his 
future, his heart was devoted to one whom I love even 
better. I have no reason to suppose that his attachment 
was returned — I hope now that it was not so — but I know 
that he was a great favorite of yours, and that you esteemed 
his noble nature, and perceived those great merits in him 
of which few persons, save you and me, were cognizant. I 
confess that I had looked forward to a time when you and 
he — but, alas, 1 all these things have ceased to be,’ and it is 
worse than useless to dwell upon them ; but I know that 
there is at least one genuine mourner for him beside myself 
and his father. As regards the latter his fate is an awful 
lesson to us to be patient with the erring, ‘ especially with 
those of our. own household.’ His wretchedness wrings 
my heart. I do not, however, write these lines, dear 
Grace, to make you sorrowful. I would rather remind you 
that it is not intended that any loss which Providence 
inflicts upon us should permanently sadden our lives, and 
least of all when, as in your case, they are but beginning.’* 

16 


THE BURNT MILLION . 


-42 

It was a characteristic letter throughout;, a curious 
blending of kindness and good sense, of Christian teaching, 
and the wisdom of this world. Grace read it with remorse, 
for, though its expressions of regret came home to her, 
every one, she was conscious of being in an altogether 
different frame of mind from that in which the writer 
expected to find her. How could it be otherwise, when 
she was about to meet the man of her choice, for the first 
time in that acknowledged relation. She felt that she 
would be a hypocrite and a dissembler, if she did not write 
that very day to enlighten the good lawyer as to the real 
state of the case. 

Mr. Roscoe had been commissioned by Agnes to send a 
letter by hand to Dale End that morning to invite Walter 
to exchange his quarters at the Angler’s Rest for a lodging 
in the cottage, and that young gentleman did not take long 
in settling his very moderate bill and packing his port- 
manteau. There was a phrase in the letter, which, though 
not remarkable for grace of expression, made him think 
more highly of the writer than he had hitherto done, though, 
as we know, he had always seemed more sensible of his 
merits than they deserved. 

“ We shall all be glad to see you again,” he wrote, “ and 
one of us (I think between ourselves) particularly sc.” It 
was a little precipitating matters, perhaps, but Mr. Ros- 
coe was personally interested in the denouement of this 
idyll, and, as he expressed it to himself, was not going to 
let there be any shilly shallying about it, so far as he was 
concerned. 

It so happened that Grace took her walk by the lakeside 
that morning, and, meeting the dogcart with Mr. Atkinson 
and Walter in it, the former was directed to drive on to the 
Hall (which he did with his tongue in his cheek, and a 
world of cunning enjoyment in his eyes), and the latter 
got out and accompanied Grace home on foot : an equiva- 
lent in the way of public notice, as far as mine host of the 
Angler’s Rest was concerned, to the publication of their 
banns in the parish church. The young couple, however, 
never wasted a thought on this — though public notice was 
just then the last thing they desired — but pursued their 
way with happy hearts and the most perfect natural un- 
derstanding. 

“ Agnes and Philippa have been both so kind,” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


243 


mured the young lady, a propos des bottes , as it would have 
seemed to most ears. 

“And I must say Roscoe has expressed himself in a very 
friendly way, my darling,” returned Walter in the same 
dove-like tones, and without the slightest difficulty in 
detecting her meaning. 

What a walk that was by the crisp and sparkling lake in 
the late Autumn morning ! For them it had no touch of 
winter, and in the dark and wintry days that fell upon them 
— but of whose advent they had no suspicion, for we are 
speaking not of the changes of the seasons but of the cold 
and gloom that was fated to embitter their near future — it 
recurred to their memories again and again with sad dis- 
tinctness. There was no need for the one to woo or the 
other to be wooed ; their hearts were wedded already. 
They were in paradise, and dreamt not of the flaming sword 
that was to drive them out of it. Their talk would not 
perhaps have been very interesting to the outsider; but to 
themselves every syllable was sweet as the honey of Hybla. 
When we are reading our own verses aloud, says a great 
poetess, “ the chariot wheels jar in the gates through which 
we drive them forth,” and something of the sort takes place 
in love language, but the speakers are unconscious of it, 
nay, its very imperfections, the breaks and stops, the half- 
finished sentences (closed perhaps by a kiss), the wild and 
wandering vows that Love in its intoxication dictates, seem 
eloquence itself to them. 

As they now moved slowly homewards (not arm-in-arm, 
for somehow Walter’s arm had strayed round Grace’s 
waist), another couple watched them from an elevation of 
the road that intervened between them and the Hall. They 
were not outwardly so demonstrative in their attacnment 
to one another, but to judge by their conversation were 
nevertheless on very familiar terms. 

“ There come the two turtle doves,” observed Mr. Ros- 
coe (for it was he and Philippa) ; “lam glad to see that 
they are billing and cooing already. If ‘ happy’s the woo- 
ing that’s not long a doing,’ they will have something to 
be congratulated upon.” 

1 1 hope so, indeed,” sighed Philippa. “ Though even 
then I don’t see the end of our own trouble.” 

“ It will be a very satisfactory event in itself at all 
events,” observed her companion. 


244 


THE BURNT MILLION 


“ You mean in a pecuniary point of view, I suppose, n 
returned Philippa gloomily. “ I sometimes wish that there 
was no such thing as money. ” 

"If you add or the want of it, I will agree with you,'* 
responded her companion airily. “ But their marriage will 
do much for us, I hope. It will certainly be one of two 
obstacles removed from our path.” 

“But how far the lesser one,” remarked Philippa, with 
such a deep-drawn sigh that it seemed almost like a groan 
of despair. 

“ That is true enough,” he answered, with knitted brow, 
but it is not you, remember, who suffer from that other, as 
I do. You are not pestered with her importunities and 
her impatience. She does not overwhelm you with her 
unwelcome attentions ; indeed,” he added with his grim- 
mest smile, “ you seem of late to be more free from any- 
thing of the sort than ever.” 

“ It may be a laughing matter to you, but not to me, 
Edward,” she answered angrily. “ You don’t know what 
a woman feels who is situated as I am ; and it seems to me 
that you don’t much care.” 

“ Nay, nay, do not say that, my dear,” he replied in his 
most honeyed tone. “ I feel for you very much.” 

“ To see her coming between me and you,” continued 
Philippa vehemently, and without taking notice of this 
blandishment, “ as though she had a right to do it, drives 
me half frantic ; to have to set a guard all day upon lip 
and eye, lest word or glance should betray me to her, is 
not only irksome to me to the last degree, but humiliating. 
I give you fair warning that I can’t stand it much longer.” 

She was looking straight before her, and did not see the 
scowl that darkened her companion’s face ; for an instant 
he wore the look of a demon ; it vanished, however, as 
quickly as it came, and when he spoke it was in the same 
calm persuasive voice — though with perhaps a little more 
firmness in it — that had served his turn so often. 

“ My dear Philippa, you seem to have forgotten that 
this annoyance, of which you not unnaturally complain, 
was foreseen by us from the first. You made up your 
mind, you said, to bear it. Under other circumstances we 
might even have had to bear it longer ; I need hardly re- 
mind you how that necessity was put an end to.” 

“ Great heaven, how can you speak of it ?” cried Philippa, 


THE B UR NT MIL L ION 


245 


with a low piteous ery. Her face had grown ghastly 
white to the very lips, and her eyes expressed an unspeak- 
able horror. “ You promised me ^you never, never 
would ! ” 

“ Pardon me, my dear, I had forgotten,” he murmured 
penitently; “I should not have done it.” 

But the while she hid her face in her hands and sobbed 
hysterically, the expression on his own was by no means 
one of penitence. It was, on the contrary, one of satis- 
faction, and could it have been translated into words 
would have run, u Now I have given her something to think 
about, which will prevent her dwelling upon these little 
inconveniences for some time to come.” And indeed it 
seemed he had, for not a word more did she say concern- 
ing them, while the young couple drew nearer and nearer. 

“ Dry your eyes,” whispered Mr. Roscoe sharply and 
suddenly, “ Agnes is following us.” 

This precaution Philippa had hitherto neglected to take. 
Perhaps she had concluded that there was no necessity for 
it, since Grace might naturally enough have ascribed her 
emotion (for Philippa, unlike her elder sister, was very 
emotional) to pleasure at seeing her with her lover, but 
she took it now, and, after pressing her handkerchief to 
her eyes, fluttered it in the wind, as though she had only 
taken it out in sign of pleasure to the happy pair. 

Then she greeted Walter effusively. “ So glad to see 
you again amongst us, Mr. Sinclair,” and kissed Grace. 

Then Agnes joined them with a smile on her face, but 
not without an expression on it also that betrayed the 
recent presence of a frown. 

“ I had hoped to be the first to bid you welcome to 
Halswater,” she said, “ but I perceive that I have been 
anticipated.” 

By whom was made clear enough by the angry glance 
she cast at Philippa. 

Before that lady could make what would have probably 
been no very conciliatory rejoinder, Mr. Roscoe struck 
in. 

“ We happened to be walking this way,” he observed 
apologetically. 

That use of the plural pronoun, associating, as it did, 
himself with Philippa, overcame the slight self-restraint 
that Agnes was putting upon herself. “ I was not referring 


246 


THE BURNT MILLION \ 


to you, Mr. Roscoe,” she replied, “ you are not the master 
of the Hall, and therefore not in a position to welcome any 
of its guests.” 

“You are extremely rude and very offensive, Agnes,” 
exclaimed Philippa furiously. 

“ Hush, hush,” said Mr. Roscoe, reprovingly ; “ you are 
wrong, Miss Philippa, to speak so to your sister, and Miss 
Agnes is perfectly right. I must have seemed to her no 
doubt — though she was mistaken in so thinking — to have 
taken too much upon myself,” and he removed his hat and 
bowed to Agnes. 

Her face was a spectacle ; it was evident that she bitterly 
regretted having lost her temper, but that the presence of 
Philippa prevented her from acknowledging it. To have 
thus humiliated Mr. Roscoe was pain and grief to her, but 
she could not humiliate herself by saying so ; she looked 
as though she could have bitten her tongue out. It was 
an unpleasant quarter of a minute for everybody. 

Even Walter Sinclair felt that there were crumpled rose 
leaves — not to say serpents — in the paradise he had pic- 
tured himself as being about to enter. 

“ It is beautiful weather for the end of October,” he 
observed, with ludicrous inappositeness; but as any stick 
does to beat a dog with, so any remark in circumstances 
of painful embarrassment is seized upon and made use of 
as a way out of it. 

The whole party began talking of autumn tints as though 
they were peripatetic landscape painters, and had come 
down to illustrate the neighborhood. 

But in one heart there was such a passion at work — wild 
rage and cruel hate, and wounded pride, and passionate 
desire to be even with the cause of his humiliation — that 
if it could have been laid bare to the eyes of her com- 
panions would have frozen the well-meant platitudes upon 
their lips with the horror of it. 

“ Philippa is right,” muttered Edward Roscoe to himself, 
with a frightful oath ; “ this state of things shall not go on 
much longer.” 


THE BURNT MILLION 


247 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

AT LUNCH. 

On arriving at the Hall, Mr. Roscoe at once took Walter 
to his quarters at the cottage ; he made some excuse about 
wishing him to take choice of one of two bedrooms, but 
his real reason was to introduce him to Richard. 

Since his brother had been fool enough (as he expressed 
it to himself) to fall over head and ears in love with the 
girl, he thought it dangerous that he should have his first 
meeting with her accepted swain in the young lady's pre- 
sence ; he had confidence in Richard's word, but not in 
his self-command. He almost feared that he might exhibit 
some sort of antagonism to the young fellow even as it 
was. It was, however, a groundless apprehension. So far 
from showing dislike or embarrassment, Richard received 
the newly-arrived guest with an excess of friendliness. 

“ I am glad, indeed,” he said, “ to take the hand of your 
father’s son ; it is a pleasure to which I have long looked 
forward, but which I began to fear I was never again to 
experience." 

“ You knew him well, I know,” returned Walter with 
reciprocal warmth. 

“ He was the dearest friend I ever had,” was the other’s 
earnest reply, “ and the best.” He scanned the young 
fellow from head to feet with curious interest. “ I see a 
likeness in you, stronger than when last I saw you as a 
boy, and yet not a strong one. He might have been in 
youth what you are : but I only knew him in later years. 
Not that he was an old man, far from it ; nor had fatigue 
and privation — though he had endured them to the utter- 
most — weakened his great strength.” 

“ Yes, he was very strong ; and also, as I have heard, a 
most extraordinary runner,” said Walter. 

“Yes, yes,” answered the other hastily, then added, as if 
to himself, “ Great heaven, this is horrible ! " and sank into 
a chair with stony eyes and bloodless face. 


248 


THE BURNT MILLION 


“ My brother is not very well just now,” observed Mr. 
Roscoe ; “ the least emotion excites him strongly. I 
warned you of this, you know, Richard,” he continued in 
an earnest almost menacing tone. 

“ No, no, it is not that” answered Richard vehemently. 
“ It is something of which you know nothing, but which it 
behoves Walter Sinclair to know. Leave us alone together, 
Edward.” Then, as his brother shook his head and frowned, 
he added, “ it is about his father, and his ears alone must 
hear it.” 

“ Then you can speak with him another time,” said Ed- 
ward decisively ; “ it will utterly upset you to do so now. 
Besides there is the luncheon bell, and it would be bad 
manners to detain Mr. Sinclair from his hostess, just after 
he has arrived. You know what a stickler she is about 
such matters.” 

Walter had already had an experience of it, and at once 
hastened to take Mr. Roscoe’s view of the matter. 

“ Nothing will give me greater pleasure,” he said to 
Richard gently, “ than to speak with you about my father, 
but, as your brother says, perhaps it will be better to wait 
for a more favorable opportunity.” 

Richard scarcely seemed to hear what the other was 
saying. “ He would talk of you by the hour,” he said, as 
if buried in reminiscence. “ ‘ My poor lad, that I shall 
never see again,’ he used to call you. And he never did — 
he never did.” The speaker’s chin fell forward on his 
breast, and he said no more. 

“ Come,” said Mr. Roscoe, taking the young man by the 
arm, “ let us leave my brother alone for a little. He is 
doing himself harm by all this talk.” Then, as they walked 
away together, he told his companion how tender-hearted 
his brother was; (“it runs in our family,” he said, “ but I 
have more self-restraint ”) ; and how greatly attached he 
had been to Walter’s father. “ Nevertheless, my brother 
only knew him (as he told you) in his later years, during 
which, as I hear, you had no communication with vour 
father.” 

“ That is quite true,” sighed the young man, “ I never saw 
him, nor heard of him, after he started to hunt in the 
prairie, till I got tidings of his death. He was killed by 
the Indians.” 

“ So I understand,” said Mr. Roscoe, a little drily for a 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


249 


member of such a tender-hearted family. “ Yonder are the 
ladies waiting for us and also for their luncheon. I have 
noticed that the fair sex do not mind how late their guests 
are for dinner, but are very particular about their midday 
meal. It is doubtless because they are always taking 
little sips and snacks in the afternoon, and have no real 
appetite for the other.” 

To look at Mr. Roscoe’s smiling face, however, as it 
met those of his' hostesses, you would have imagined he 
had just been passing an eulogium upon all womankind. 
Nor were they backward in reciprocating his apparent 
chivalry. Agnes dowered him with an especially gracious 
look, as if anxious to make amends for her late outbreak ; 
Philippa smiled on him with satisfaction, at the remem- 
brance of that passage of arms, which she well knew, 
moreover, that he had not forgotten ; and Grace was 
radiant, though it was true not so much on his account, as 
on that of the guest he had brought with him. 

“ Where is Mr. Richard ? ” inquired Agnes, as they sat 
down to table. 

And before even Mr. Roscoe’s ready tongue could frame 
an excuse for his brother’s absence, Mr. Richard himself 
made his appearance. Every trace of his recent emotion 
had disappeared. His face, too, was pleasant and smiling ; 
though to an observant eye (and there was one upon him) 
his cheerfulness might have seemed, a little feigned. 

“ I am glad to see you looking so much better, Mr. 
Richard,” said Agnes : “ now our little family circle is 
quite complete.” She glanced at Mr. Roscoe for approval, 
for the word “ family” had been put in to please him; 
partly as a compliment to himself and his brother, partly 
to carry out his views as respected Grace and Walter. 

“ It will certainly not be the fault of our hostess,” that 
gentleman returned earnestly, “ if it is not a happy one, 
and all does not go as merrily as a marriage bell.” 

If a certain lawyer had been there, who was acquainted 
with the circumstances, he would probably have murmured 
to himself, “ What an infernal scoundrel ! ” but that indivi- 
dual was not present, and all who were seemed to receive 
the observation in a proper spirit. Curiously enough, how- 
ever, the conversation presently reverted to him. 

“ Have you seen Mr. Allerton lately,” inquired Philippa 
of Walter. 


25° 


THE BURNT MILLION 


“ Yes ; I saw him just before my departure from town, 
and he charged me with many kind messages to you ladies, 
which, except as to their general purport, I am very much 
afraid I have forgotten.” 

“You had something else to think about, I daresay,” 
said Agnes, with another conciliatory glance at Mr. Ros- 
coe. 

“ Or perhaps it was jealousy,” observed Philippa, with a 
sly look at Grace ; “ some people don’t like to give tender 
messages to ladies which have been entrusted to them by 
others. Not that I feel the omission very poignantly on 
my own account,” she added, “ for my experience of Mr. 
Allerton is far from tender. In his character of trustee I 
find him very hard.” Here she suddenly flushed up, and 
came to a full stop. Mr. Roscoe had (I grieve to say it of 
one generally so polite to ladies) given her a kick under the 
table. 

“ I cannot say that of him,” remarked Agnes, coldly. 
“ He always seems to me to exercise a very proper pru- 
dence.” 

Mr. Roscoe’s face grew livid ; Agnes, perhaps purposely, 
was looking elsewhere and did not perceive it. “ You are 
a great friend of Mr. Allerlon’s, I believe, Mr. Sinclair,” 
she continued. 

“ He has been very kind to me at all events,” responded 
the young man, warmly. “ Indeed I owe him a great deal, 
for thanks to his good offices, when my Cumberland holi- 
day is over, a position has been offered me in a certain firm, 
better than one so inexperienced as myself could have 
hoped for.” 

“ That is very good news,” observed Mr. Roscoe ; and 
he spoke as if he meant it, as indeed he did, for the tidings 
suited well with his own plans. 

“ But at present, Mr. Sinclair,” put in Agnes graciously, 
“you will have nothing to do. I trust, but to enjoy your- 
self.” 

She really liked the young fellow, but was also very 
desirous to efface from his mind the impression which her 
conduct of the morning had only too probably made upon 
it. 

“ Indeed, Miss Tremenhere, with the recollection of 
your late river home in my mind,” he answered gratefully, 
“ I can imagine nothing but happiness under your roof.” 


THE BURNT MILLION 


251 


Walter meant what he said, but his words to those pre- 
sent, and who knew how life went on at Halswater, must 
have seemed, indeed, a strange stretch of fancy. There 
was a sudden silence which he naturally attributed to an- 
other cause. “ I do not forget, however,” he continued 
with feeling, “ that at Elm Place you had a guest whom 
we shall all miss here.’ 

“ Yes, poor Lord Cheribert,” said Agnes, “ how affable 
he was, was he not ? ” She was not generally so maladroit 
in her observations, but she was in a hurry to say some- 
thing. 

“ So full of high spirits, I should rather call him,” ob- 
served Philippa decisively. “ One never remembered that, 
he was a lord at all.” 

This was not quite true, as regarded herself; for indeed 
she had never forgotten the fact, which gave her an un- 
reasonable pleasure, for a single instant ; but to “ wipe 
her sister’s eye,” as Mr. Roscoe called it, was a temptation 
she could never resist. Agnes bit her lip, angry with her- 
self at her mistake, and furious with her reprover. 

Unhappily, though he did not intend it, Mr. Roscoe’s 
next observation followed Philippa’s lead. 

“ Yes ; one forgot his rank,” he said, “ in his attractive 
qualities ; one called him 1 Cheribert ’ from the first ; he 
was a capital fellow all round ; it was a pity, however, 
that his great fortune went to the dogs, or rather to the 
horses.” 

‘ Other people waste their money quite as foolishly,” 
observed Agnes drily, “ though not on the same follies.” 

Again came that livid look on Mr. Roscoe’s face which 
had overspread it by the lakeside that morning. If ever 
an angry woman could be warned, it should have had a 
warning in it. 

“ For my part,” said Grace, speaking for the first time, 
and with suppressed feeling, “ I shall never think of Lord 
Cheribert’s follies. He had many and great temptations 
to which others are not exposed. His faults were on the 
surface ; few kinder, nay, even nobler hearts than his ever 
beat in a human breast.” 

“ In that I must entirely agree with you,” said Walter 
earnestly ; “ and if he had lived he would have proved it.” 


252 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

RICHARD'S STORY. 

There was something—** there is always a something ” — on 
Grace’s mind, beside the happiness which well-nigh filled 
it, in the consciousness that it behoved her to write to Mr. 
Allerton to tell him of her engagement. 

Her correspondence with him had been hitherto always 
of a pleasant kind, but she foresaw that which she had now 
to say would be far from pleasing to him. She liked the 
old lawyer very much — more perhaps than any one in the 
world with one exception, but she knew his weakness. He 
was liberal even to munificence with his own money ; quite 
understood that the only true value of it lay in its power 
of doing good ; but he set too great store upon it when it 
belonged to other people. Half his life had been passed 
in the endeavor to make men come by their own, or to 
prevent what was theirs falling into other hands. Money 
was a sacred trust with him. If she had understood Mr. 
Allerton’s real opinion of her sisters, and especially of Mr. 
Roscoe, she would have pictured to herself a far more 
vehement opposition ; but, even as it was, she knew that 
he would oppose her views. She did not fear that he 
would offer any personal objection — indeed how could he, 
or for that matter could any one else? — but she felt that 
he would object to the pecuniary loss she would sustain by 
becoming Walter’s wife. She had told Walter that the gulf 
between them was neither so wide nor so deep as he had 
imagined ; and he had understood her as she knew (and 
meant him so to understand it) in the literal sense of her 
words. She had in reality referred to her indifference to 
the disparity of fortune between them ; what he had 
imagined her to convey was that it was not so very great ; 
he was probably unaware that through her marriage with 
him she would forfeit her claim to an immense fortune ; 
that nothing in fact would remain to her but the money she 
had saved since her father’s death — much of which had 


THE BURNT MILLION 


253 


gone in charity — and the 10,000/. he had left to hei, let her 
marry whom she might. To what is called a chivalrous 
mind, but she knew it was not true chivalry, to a quixotic 
mind then, such as she feared that of Walter to be, the 
knowledge of all this might be fatal to his hopes. She felt 
that the longer it was delayed the better ; that every day 
they passed in each other’s society would make him more 
and more her own, and render it more difficult for him to 
give her up. The wisdom of the serpent and the harmless- 
ness of the dove (or the love bird) combined to prevent 
her communicating at present with Mr. Allerton ; and she 
therefore forebore to do it. She had no fear of any one 
else telling him her secret. She was not so simple, but 
that she perceived her sisters were very willing for their 
own sakes that she should marry Walter, and would cer- 
tainly do nothing to obstruct it ; and she blessed them for 
their greed. 

In the meantime she had never been so happy. 


Love took up the glass of Time and turned it in his glowing hands, 
Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. 

If dear papa could have only known her Walter and wit- 
nessed her happiness, was the only picture her imagination 
could form of an increase of bliss. 


Many an evening by the waters (where, thank Heaven, were no ships) 
Did their spirits meet together at the touching of the lips. 

The loneliness of Halswater made it an admirable locality 
for such proceedings, and Walter Sinclair was no laggard 
in love : never was an engaged young couple more com- 
pletely left to their own devices than they were. Walter 
was a persona grata to every one, even including Richard 
Roscoe. They might have noticed indeed (but they 
noticed nothing) that he avoided them when together, with 
even a greater consideration than did the rest of the house- 
hold, and that he shrank even still more from meeting 
Grace alone ; but he not only cultivated Walter’s society, 
but showed a particular kindness for the young fellow. 

It was many days, however, before he made that reve- 
lation, he had promised him on their first acquaintance, 
respecting his connection with his father. 


254 


THE BURNT MILLION 


The three men had been smoking together at the cottage 
one night as their custom was after they had bidden good- 
night to the ladies, and Edward Roscoe, feeling tired, had 
gone to his own room. There had ensued a long silence 
between the two who remained, Walter’s thoughts, as 
usual, being occupied with Grace, while the other, as he 
slowly expelled the smoke from his lips, regarded his 
companion with earnest eyes and an expression which it 
would have been difficult to analyze, for it was made up 
of various emotions, and some of them antagonistic to 
one another — tenderness, remorse, and jealousy. 

“ Walter, my lad,” he presently said, in low grave tones, 
“ I hope we shall always be good friends whatever 
happens.” 

“ I hope so, indeed, Mr. Richard,” replied the young 
fellow, with a natural surprise. “ On my side, at least, it 
must always be so; not only on your own account but 
because you were my father’s friend. I trust there is no 
reason why you should look forward, on your part, to any 
alteration in your feelings towards myself.” 

“ There will be no alteration, no,” answered the other 
with a heavy sigh. “ You will never do any harm to me 
more than you have already done.” 

“ And that is none,” returned Walter, with a light laugh, 
“ so I think our friendship is secure.” 

He had not the least idea to what the other had alluded ; 
but his strange remark had made little impression upon 
him ; he was not easily impressed just now by observations 
made by any one, save one, and Richard had always 
seemed to him a queer fellow, who lived more in the past 
than the present, and who had a way of speaking not 
always quite to the purpose. 

“ Heaven grant that it may be so,” continued his com- 
panion with gentle earnestness, “ but you, at all events, 
have something to forgive ?ne , my lad ; for but for Richard 
Roscoe, your poor father would have been alive this 
moment.” 

“ What ? Did you kill him then ? ” cried Walter, start- 
ing from his seat. 

“/ kill him? / who was his dearest friend! No; 
though in one sense would that I had. From my hand he 
would have welcomed death rather than — ” He broke off 
with a shudder, and the whispered words, “ Ah, how can 
Heaven permit such things ? ” 


THE BURNT MILLION 


2 55 


Walter resumed his seat, and waited with patient 
anxiety for what might be coming. It was obviously use- 
less to press his companion ; the difficulty he found in 
making his communication at all was only too evident. 
His face was grey and bloodless, and a dew, as of death 
itself, had fallen on it. 

“ There are people, Walter,” he commenced slowly after 
a long pause, “ who will tell you that the American Indians 
are as other men, with the like feelings and emotions as 
ourselves, open to gratitude and moved by tenderness, and 
who can be influenced for good. I have lived among them 
for years, and can only say that I have never seen such a 
one. Within my experience, they have been all alike, 
treacherous, base, and heartless, and whenever the oppor- 
tunity is offered of proving themselves so, incarnate fiends. 
They have many evil passions (as Heaven knows have we 
too), but one overmastering one, that of cruelty ; a lust 
for barbarity more hellish than ever dwelt in a white man’s 
breast. This they have not in war time only but at all 
times, and directed not necessarily against their enemies 
but against all the human race. Your father understood 
this thoroughly ; before he became a hunter, you know, he 
was attached as a volunteer to a detachmeut of the United 
States army ; and this, he told me, happened to a little 
drummer boy of his regiment who chanced to fall into the 
hands of the Apache Indians. He was but thirteen years 
old and a pretty boy, and he was given over to the tender 
mercies of the Squaws. Everywhere else in the world 
almost such a captive would have excited pity in the 
breasts of women. These creatures did this : they stripped 
the child, tied him to a tree, and for four hours subjected 
him to every torture which their experience told them 
would not be fatal to him. Then they took sinuous pine 
knobs, and, splitting them in small splinters, stuck them 
all over his little body, till (as a spectator, a Mexican half- 
breed described it) he looked like a porcupine, and set 
fire to them. They yelled and danced at his screams of 
anguish till he slowly died.” 

“ What a sickening tale/’ exclaimed Walter, with marked 
disgust. 

“ No doubt,” replied the other drily, “but if such things 
are so bad even to hear of, what must they be to endure ? 
If Indians so use a harmless child, you may guess what 


256 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


they are capable of when their enemies are in their power ; 
I say their enemies — though they treat helpless women 
even more devilishly than they treat men — however, it was 
an enemy of theirs with whom my story has to do.” 

“Did my father fall into the power of such fiends ?’* 
exclaimed Walter excitedly. 

“ Listen. Your father and I were hunters of the plains 
for years together. He was a man of iron nerve and an 
excellent shot, but, so far as I know, he never took a 
human life unless his own was threatened. Many and 
many a time had we been attacked by these devils, and 
sent them howling to their hell ; but we never sought 
them out, nor even pursued them. He was a quiet man, 
never given to bloodthirstiness nor revenge. So was I at 
that time, Heaven knows. It is not so now.” Then he 
paused and poured himself out a glass of water ; his hand 
trembled so violently that he could hardly carry it to his 
lips. “ I cannot speak of these things as I would wish to 
do,” he murmured apologetically ; “ there is a fever in my 
heart, and in my brain. They make me mad. Yes ; he 
spared many that he might have slain, though he well 
understood their natures. We were well armed of course ; 
one night as we were putting by our revolvers, I noticed 
he had a pistol in his breast-pocket. ‘ What is that for? ’ 
I asked. ‘It is for myself,’ he answered gravely ; ‘if the 
worst should come to the worst, I will never fall into 
Indian hands alive. I know them,’ he added significantly. 

“ We had had a good season and were returning to the 
settlement; we had left the prairie behind us when it 
became necessary one evening to cross a river. It was in 
flood and dangerous, but the Sioux were about us, we 
knew, and there was better and safer camping ground on 
the other side of it. We rode our horses at the stream, 
but it proved too strong for us. There were rocks too in 
the river, and against one of these I was dashed by the 
current and unhorsed. The animal was carried down the 
stream, and I myself reached the bank with difficulty ; I 
was much bruised and had sprained my ankle. Your 
father with great exertion brought his horse safe to land, 
but, like myself, at the sacrifice of his weapons ; our rifles 
and revolvers were lost ; he had nothing but his pistol. 
Our situation was desperate indeed, for we felt only too 
certain that we had been watched by the Sioux. Had we 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


257 


had our arms, we should not have feared them, for they 
had had experience of their accuracy, and relied on 
opportunity alone for destroying us. Worthless though 
they be, these wretches never throw their own lives away. 
If we had had even our horses we could have escaped 
from them ; but we had but one horse. That they knew, 
but not that we were defenceless, so that for the night we 
were left in peace, but not to rest. I sometimes think if 
we could have got rest that night, two lives might have 
been saved instead of one. The fatigue exhausted our 
strength. At the dawn of day we saw the Sioux ; they had 
crossed the river, doubtless at some ford, and were coming 
towards us — some fifty mounted men. One held out a 
branch of a tree in token of amity. Your father smiled a 
bitter smile as he saw it. 4 They must think us in straits 
indeed/ he said, ‘ to suppose us willing to trust their good 
faith.’ Then, turning to me, 4 there is not a moment to 
be lost, Richard. You are lame and cannot run a yard. 
You must take my horse and ride for Railton (the nearest 
fort).’ 

“ 4 What, and leave you to the tender mercies of these 
hell hounds ? ” I answered. 

44 4 Not so/ he said, 4 1 have my pistol, remember ; it 
is but death at the worst. Moreover, by taking to the 
scrub yonder, I hope to keep ahead of them all, and save 
my scalp. You, of course, must keep to the open. My 
horse is a better one than was ever crossed by a Sioux. If 
you reach home with a whole skin, you will come back and 
look for me.’ 

44 4 But you are throwing away your life for mine ? ’ I 
cried. 

44 4 Mount and ride, man. Every moment of delay is risk- 
ing both our lives.” He helped me on to his horse, for I 
was so stiff as well as lame that I could hardly move, with 
his own hands, and off we started, he for the scrub and I 
for the open. That was the last I saw of your father — 
alive.” 


17 


258 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE STORY CONTINUED. 

“Why do you not go on?” inquired Walter, after a long 
silence, which his companion showed no disposition to 
break. 

“ There is a reason for it,” answered the other hoarsely ; 
“ it would spare both of us, if I said no more. Neverthe- 
less, you have a right to hear all — if you wish it.” 

Walter inclined his head ; he felt too sick at heart to 
speak. 

“ Well, the good horse saved me from the Sioux, as he 
would have saved his master. They followed me for two 
days and then gave up the chase. On the third morning 
I reached the post half dead with hunger and fatigue ; but 
in an hour I was in the saddle again following my own 
tracks with five-and-twenty mounted volunteers. The 
fever of my soul sustained me. The thought of your father 
and of what he had done for me, and of what might have 
happened to him, filled my veins with fire. I slept at times 
upon my horse, but the men who were with me never lost 
the trail. Since your father had been bound for the same 
post, and we did not meet with him, I felt only too sure 
that he had not escaped with life. The best that we could 
look for, as I was well convinced, was to find his dead 
body, with a pistol bullet in it. But, alas, that was not to 
be. We searched as well as we could, always, however, 
moving quickly, till we came upon the scrub which I had 
seen him enter. To look for him there would have taken 
too much time, and it would be easy to return to it. The 
Indians had retired across the river; we found the ford 
and followed them,” Here Richard Roscoe paused and 
wiped his face on which a ghastly dew was gathering. 
“ Shall I go on ? ” he murmured. 

“ Go on,” answered Walter, in tones that no one who 
knew him would have recognized for his own ; his voice 
was frozen with the horror that had seized his companion 
though he was ignorant of what was to come. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


259 


“ Three miles or so from the river, we found what had 
once been a man, and your father. His head alone was 
above the earth, the rest of him they had buried standing. 
His poor limbs were bound with ropes. They had scalped 
him ; they had cut his lips, his eyelids, his nose and ears, 
and had left him then — still alive as we afterwards dis- 
covered — to be driven mad by the hot sun beating on his 
head, and to be revived for fresh tortures, by the cool air 
of the morning ; Hell only knows for how long.” 

Walter groaned. 

“ A hunter who heard of it from the fiends themselves, 
says ‘ the warrior ’ who invented this torture was thought 
very highly of by the tribe. There were not many left 
before we had done with them to praise him. This hand, 
palsied as it looks, slew seven of them ! ” 

“ Let me take it,” cried Walter, hoarsely. He took it 
and kissed it. 

“ Yet, but for me, he might have been alive, lad ; and 
I should have suffered in his stead. Do you indeed forgive 
me ? ” 

“ Yes ; if you had been in his place you would have 
done as he did.” 

“ I hope so ; I think so ; but he did it. If I ever forget 
it, I shall deserve to fall into Indian hands. Do you 
wonder now why I hate Indians ? ” 

“ But the pistol ? ” groaned Walter, unable to entertain 
any abstract subject in the whirl and horror of his per- 
sonal feelings. “ Why did he not shoot himself? ” 

“ I suppose the powder had got wet when he crossed 
the river. What are you doing, lad? ” . 

The young man had passed quickly into his own room, 
and through the open door could be seen placing things in 
his portmanteau — a revolver was the first of them. 

“ I am going away. I leave to-morrow for America ! ” 

Richard rose, went into the other room, and laid his hand 
upon his arm. 

“ No,” he said, “ that way madness lies ; look at me 
and do not doubt it.” 

Walter looked up and beheld a face he did not know ; 
pallid with hate, distorted with passion ; a livid face — and 
also one in which, it was plain, reason had no longer a 
place. 

“ Do you suppose I have not done all that could be 


26 o 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


done,” shouted this apparition, and then laughed aloud. 
“ Seven with my own hand, and six times as many more by 
those of my men. There is not one of them alive : not one. 
Will you make war against a race with your single arm ? 
Leave that to me. You are not a madman as I am. Can’t 
you see it? Come, come,” he continued, drawing his 
now unresisting companion back into the smoking-room, 
and speaking in less vehement tones. il You must keep your 
wits for other things ; for you may need them. No. 
There has been mischief enough already done. Your fa- 
ther’s torments have not been unavenged ; the man for 
whom he sacrificed his life had his sufferings too — and 
because of him. Above all things never breathe one word 
to her about your father’s death. Do you hear me ? ” 

“ Whom do you mean by her ? ” 

“ Why, Grace, of course ; our Grace. It would distress 
her.’ 

“ Of course I shall never tell her.” 

“ You think so now ; but perhaps at some other time ; 
in years to come. Swear to me you will never tell her how 
I took your father’s horse and rode away from him, and 
left him to his doom. Swear it.” 

“ I swear I never will.” 

“ I am satisfied ; you are your father’s son, and he never 
lied to me. Now let us talk of something else.” 

The speaker’s face had momentarily changed ; the fire 
had fled from it, and also the remorse and pain ; he looked 
like one exhausted even to the verge of death, but who, 
after a paroxysm of excitement, had returned to his right 
mind. The spectacle in some sort relieved his companion 
from the distress which the other’s recital had caused him : 
was it possible, he wondered for the moment, whether the 
man was not a madman, and had imagined the whole 
hideous story ; though he came to the conclusion that this 
was not the case, but rather that the recollection of so 
shocking an incident had affected his brain, the conviction 
turned his thoughts into another channel. If the poor 
fellow should be subject, as he had himself confessed, to 
lose his reason, might he not prove dangerous to Grace ? 
She was evidently a subject of regard to his disordered 
mind. His solicitude that she should not hear the story 
might be accounted for by the part he had himself played, 
but what did he mean by that strange expression “ our 


THE BURNT MILLION 


261 


Grace ” ? It was a slight matter, but the least suspicion of 
danger in connection with so dear a being alarmed him. 
There had hitherto not been the slightest kink or hitch in 
the smooth course of their true love, and he was the more 
inclined on that account to exaggerate the smallest obstacle 
to it. 

It was with great dissatisfaction, therefore, that he heard 
his companion presently return to the subject which he 
had himself spoken of as closed. 

“ It may be necessary, my lad/’ said Richard, as if 
moved by an after-thought, “ to speak of your father to you 
once again ; but I see how the matter distresses you, as 
well it may, and I promise you it shall be for the last 
time. ,, 

“ Indeed,” returned the other earnestly, “ I do not wish 
to hear it. What has been told me is sufficient, and more 
than sufficient. You were quite right to tell it me, and I 
thank you for the confidence that has cost you so dearly, 
but since, as you have justly pointed out, retribution is out 
of my power to exact, I entreat you to be silent on the 
matter, which can only cause me more distress and pain.” 

“ Poor lad,” answered the other with gentle gravity ; 
“ perhaps it may not be necessary for me to speak ; let us 
hope it may not for both our sakes. It is very late ; good- 
night ; and may you have no such dreams as I have.” 

Walter had no dreams that night for he had no sleep. 
The fate of his father, and the possibility of danger to Grace 
— or at the best of great distress of mind if she should come 
to hear of the matter, divided his waking thoughts. It is 
true that Richard had himself enjoined upon him silence 
on the subject ; but what trust could be reposed in one so 
strange and excitable ; it was even possible that he might 
tell the story to her with his own lips by way of penance 
for what he considered (though such an imputation was 
itself a proof of a disordered mind), his base behavior. On 
the whole he decided to warn her of Richard, but in a way 
that should not arouse any serious apprehensions. The 
next day, therefore, he took an opportunity, while walking 
with her alone, of asking her how she liked her guest at 
the cottage. 

11 1 like the poor fellow very much,” she replied frankly, 
“ better, indeed, than his brother, though we have known 
him so much longer.” 


262 


THE BURNT MILLION 


“Then why, since he has won your regard, my dear,” 
he answered smiling, “ should he be called a poor fel- 
low ? ” 

“ Well,” returned Grace, with a little hesitation, “ he is 
an invalid, you know. One cannot but pity one who, 
though so far from old age, has lost the activity and strength 
that he manifestly once possessed. As he once told me 
with his own lips he is the mere wreck of his former self. 
You are not jealous, are you ? ” she added slily, “ that 
Mr. Richard has given me his confidences? ” 

“ Not at all,” said Walter with a laugh, which was, 
however, rather forced, for her reply had chimed in with 
his apprehensions ; “ but is there no other reason why you 
pity him ? ” 

“ Well, if you compel me to say so, I fear that the 
fatigues and privations he has endured have affected his 
mind as well as his body.” 

“But you don’t fear him, I hope,” inquired Walter 
anxiously. 

“ Certainly not ; I believe he has a sincere regard for 
me. But there is no doubt that his manner is at times 
exceedingly eccentric.” 

“ Yes ; some subjects excite him in the strangest manner \ 
he is not himself when he talks about them, and all allu- 
sion to them should be discouraged. I want you to be 
careful, my darling, about that — for his sake, of course.” 

“ I will be very careful ; but what are the subjects ? ” 

“ Well, there is one, for example, which, if he attempt to 
speak to you upon, I beg that you will decline to listen to 
him. Would you mind saying at once and peremptorily 
that it is distasteful to you ? ” 

“ I am quite sure that if I even hinted at it being so, it 
would be dropped at once. Mr. Richard, despite some 
drawbacks patent to everybody, is at heart a gentleman, 
and moreover would, I am convinced, respect any wish of 
mine.” 

“Very good, then, don’t let him talk to you about the 
American Indians.” 

“ The American Indians ? ” echoed Grace, with amaze- 
ment. 

“ Yes ; it seems ludicrous enough, of course, but he has, 
not without reason, a great detestation of them. He has 
doubtless suffered at their hands, but his views upon the 


THE BURNT MILLION 


263 


subject are exaggerated, and between ourselves by no 
meafis trustworthy. You must never be frightened by any- 
thing he tells you about them, but what will be much your 
safest way is to refuse to listen to him. When he gets 
upon that topic he is in my opinion not a responsible be- 
ing — I hope I have not alarmed you, my darling,” for Grace 
had turned rather pale ; “ there is no danger to be appre- 
hended, of course, but I wish to save you from hearing 
what may be unpleasant, and which at the same time would 
be harmful to the poor man himself.” 

“ I am not the least afraid, Walter,” she answered quietly, 
“ and will take care to use the precaution you have recom- 
mended.” 

They went on to talk of other subjects, and Walter, no 
doubt, thought he had reason to congratulate himself on 
his skilful diplomacy. But his revelation had filled Grace’s 
mind with recollections and suspicions of which he little 
guessed. She was under a promise to Richard, as we 
know, to be silent about his extraordinary behavior during 
their drive in the pony carriage, but the cause of it was no 
longer inexplicable to her. The strange noise they had 
heard as they approached the circus was no doubt the war 
whoop of the Indians, which had probably awakened some 
dreadful reminiscence in Richard Roscoe’s mind. She re- 
called his look of horror and, as she now understood it, of 
undying hate when it fell upon his ear. Another thing, too, 
occurred to her which moved her even more. The attempt 
which, if this story was to be believed, had been made 
upon the life of the Indian on the Fells. Was it possible 
that Richard Roscoe was the person who had assaulted 
him ? The man’s account of the affair had been received with 
incredulity, from the total absence of motive for such a 
crime. But if what she had just heard was true, there was 
a motive, and one that could have actuated one individual 
only in that neighborhood ; namely, Richard himself. She 
could not look upon him as a murderer, even in intent ; 
her whole soul shrank from it ; but the only alternative 
was irresistible, and filled her with vague alarms. On one 
point, at least — and why not on others — their guest at the 
cottage was a madman. 


264 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

A CHANGE OF FRONT. 

In his various characters of friend of the family, confiden- 
tial adviser, and major domo, at Hals water, Mr. Edward 
Roscoe exercised a great many rights and privileges which 
no one ever thought of disputing ; and among them was 
the unimportant but delicate office of opening the letter- 
bag, of which he kept the key. The post, as has been 
mentioned, came somewhat late in the day, so that instead 
of the family correspondence arriving as usual at breakfast 
time, and being displayed in public, it was brought to Mr. 
Roscoe, generally alone in his private sitting-room, at the 
time, and distributed consequently with his own gracious 
hands. Heaven forbid we should hint that he took any 
undue advantage of the circumstance, but it naturally hap- 
pened that he knew who got letters, and also who sent 
them away. . He knew, for example, that Grace had not 
yet written to Mr. Allerton since Walter’s arrival, and 
secretly applauded her for that maidenly reticence. He had 
much correspondence of his own, too, which it was highly 
undesirable should be laid upon the breakfast-table, and 
altogether the arrangement was a very convenient one. 

On a certain morning, when the bag had been brought 
to him as usual, and, as usual, before unlocking it, he had 
locked his door, among its contents was a letter from 
America, addressed to his brother. “ So it’s come at last, 
has it?” was his muttered observation, as he took the 
envelope in his hand and examined it attentively. “ What 
on earth made the fool seal it ? ” 

The observation seemed uncalled for, for though it is 
now unusual to seal letters, to do so is not a proof of folly ; 
and in some instances indeed the contrary. There was a 
little kettle on his fire — for he was a man who liked his 
coffee hot, and at irregular hours — and he now looked at it 
with an expression of great irritation. The fact was the 
kettle was useful to him in opening gummed envelopes, but 
of no use at all in opening sealed ones. Was it worth 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


265 


while to take the impression off this particular seal — 
which only bore initials on it — before breaking it or not ? 
Considering it was only Richard’s letter, a fellow who took 
no notice of such little matters, he thought it was not 
worth while ; he would melt the wax, and after possessing 
himself of the contents of the epistle, fasten it down again 
with a blank seal. It was a simple operation, and one to 
which he was well accustomed ; he melted the seal and 
opened the envelope. It contained a short official note to 
his brother, just saying, “ I forward you what you left 
with me,” with a banker’s name attached and the enclpsure. 
This latter was another envelope also sealed, directed “ To 
my dear son, Walter, to be delivered into his own hands.” 
“ Not just yet, however,” was Mr. Roscoe’s grim remark, 
as he melted this second seal. Then he read the enclosure. 
The effect of its perusal was remarkable. What he said 
cannot be written, because it was an execration of extreme 
violence, uttered “not loud but deep,” but what he did 
was to stamp upon the ground with impotent rage. His 
countenance was white with the white heat of fury, and the 
consciousness of baffled schemes. His eyes flashed fire. 
His first impulse was to burn the letter, but even as he 
held it over the glowing coals, he hesitated, and at that 
moment he heard Miss Agnes’ voice at the door of the 
cottage asking if the letters had come. 

In an instant he had thrown it into his open desk, and 
locked the desk, and came out to her, smiling, with the 
opened bag in his hand. 

u There are no letters for you, Miss Agnes, and I, too, 
have been neglected by my correspondents ; but there is 
one for Miss Grace — I fancy from Mr. Allerton.” 

The word “ fancy ” was a pretty touch, for the lawyer’s 
hand was as familiar to him as his own, and many a letter 
from him had he read, though he had never been one of 
his correspondents. If he had read this one, which he 
had had no time to do, it would have given him greater 
satisfaction than some others, which, indeed, had spoken 
of Mr. Edward Roscoe with more freedom than friendship. 

Agnes held him in honeyed talk, as was her wont when 
she got him alone, and to see his eyes and his smile as 
they replied to her, one would have thought the lady very 
dear to him, and never have guessed the impatience which 
her presence evoked, and far less the passion that was 
consuming him in which she had no part at all. At last 


2 66 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


he got rid of her and returned to his own room, a different 
man from him who had last entered it. An hour ago, 
though there was much to trouble him, and obstacles in his 
path that would have daunted a less determined spirit, the 
immediate matter which he had in hand had been going 
well and prosperously. It was only an initial difficulty in 
his far-reaching plans, it is true, but to find one impedi- 
ment in course of removal had been a satisfaction to him ; 
and lo ! instead of its being swept away, it had assumed 
even greater proportions, and all the work he had had with 
it had now, under far less encouraging circumstances, to 
be done over again. In vain he pulled at his cigar, not 
for comfort (comfort even from the soothing weed was not 
for such as he), but for ideas — how to meet this unexpected 
blow, and especially how to turn it, as he had often done 
in the case of such disappointments, to his own profit. 
For nearly an hour he could find no way out of the maze 
of difficulty, and only confused himself in his efforts to 
find it ; but at last he hit upon a plan. It was a dangerous, 
even a desperate one, and, what was worst of all, required 
the connivance and assistance of others ; but, having 
once grasped it, his hold on it grew more tenacious with 
every moment of possession. It is a characteristic of men 
of his class, fertile in schemes, sanguine of success, and 
confident in their own powers of persuasion, that nothing 
but total and complete failure can make them doubt of the 
practicability of their plans. What is also an attribute of 
theirs is promptness ; not an hour, not a minute, do they 
waste in putting them into execution. Taking the fateful 
scroll (or scrawl, for it was written in shaky and ill-formed 
characters, significant of a tumult Of anxieties in the 
writer’s mind) from the desk, he placed it carefully in his 
breast pocket, and sought the presence of the very person 
from whom he had of late so gladly parted, Agnes Tre- 
menhere. 

Each of the elder sisters had, like Grace, their own 
boudoir, and there was no sort of difficulty, for he had 
often certain business of a private character to transact 
with both of them, in seeing her alone. She received him 
even more cordially than usual, for his business was not 
always of a welcome character, and as he had had no 
letters from town that day she justly concluded that it was 
not on business that he came. It was soon made plain, 
however, that he had not come on pleasure. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


267 


“ Agnes,” he said, as soon as he had closed the door 
behind him, “ a great misfortune has happened to us — or 
so, at least, it first seemed to me. Before telling you how 
I propose to meet it, and even turn it to our advantage, I 
wish you to be informed exactly of its nature. Read this” 
and, without more words, he placed the missive that had 
been sent to his brother in her unfaltering hand. 

When not moved by jealousy or wrong, Agnes Tremen- 
here was cold and calculating enough. Her disposition, 
indeed, though far gentler, was almost as practical as that 
of Mr. Roscoe himself, and of this he was well aware. 
He was convinced that of the various persons with whom 
he was compelled to deal upon the present occasion, 
Agnes would be the least difficult to manage, and the most 
likely to fall in with his views. Nevertheless, it was with 
satisfaction that, as he watched her face attentively as she 
read, he saw it harden, after the first flush of surprise, and 
assume an expression of unswerving determination. 

“You know what this means, of course, as regards our- 
selves,” he said, “ and also Philippa ” (this he added 
incidentally), “if what we once thought so advisable 
should come to pass ? ” 

“ It would be the perpetuation of an infamy,” she 
answered, in a voice hoarse with rage. “ It would be 
giving effect to a most wicked wrong.” 

“ No doubt ; and therefore we must take measures to 
put a stop to it.” 

“ It will be very difficult, Edward, as well as cruel, now 
that matters have gone so far.” 

There was a touch of softness in her tone, and though 
only a touch it alarmed him. 

“ Of course it will be difficult,” he answered, with grim 
contempt. “ As to the cruelty, that is all nonsense ; I 
mean, of course ” (for he saw a flush of indignation glow 
on his companion’s face), “ that a girl like Grace is too 
young to know her own mind, and will not suffer as you 
and I would do under similar circumstances. For all that 
she has said, I still believe that she had a tenderness for 
Cheribert, and if this Sinclair was got rid of, she would 
find some other man equally to her mind. Let us confine 
ourselves to the difficulty. It is great, I admit, but not 
insuperable. The question I have come to ask you is 
whether you are prepared to see the vast fortune your 


268 


THE BURNT MILLION 


father left behind him pass out of the family, or into one 
branch of it ” 

“ I am not,” she put in quickly. “ I will never submit to 
such wrong if I can help it. There is nothing I would 
not do — provided, of course, that it were not itself a wrong 
— to prevent its commission.” 

“ That is spoken like yourself, Agnes,” said Mr. Roscoe 
approvingly. “ I only hope I shall find others, to whom I 
must also look for assistance, as just and reasonable.” 

u Others ? Do you mean Philippa ? ” she answered with 
knitted brow. 

“ Well, you see, my dear, her interests are equally 
threatened by this document with your own. We must 
all put our shoulders to the wheel, and work together for 
once.” 

“ We shall hardly have Grace with us, however/’ ob- 
served Agnes drily. “ I am truly sorry to have to treat the 
dear girl in any way as an antagonist. But she ought to 
be able to see for herself how unfair and infamous ” 

“ So she would,” put in Mr. Roscoe hastily, “ if her eyes 
were not blinded by her love for Walter; she would be 
the first to see it ; we shall be in fact only working in the 
same interests as herself — namely in those of Truth and 
Justice — if she were in a position to look at the matter 
from an unprejudiced standpoint. As it is, however, she 
must know nothing about this,” and he tapped the docu- 
ment with his finger. 

“ And Richard ? ” 

“ Well, of course, Richard must never know. Why 
should he ? The thing has been lost in the post, and there 
is no duplicate.” 

“ Must it really be so ? I hate deceit, Edward.” 

“ So do I ; but I hate injustice more — to those I love,” 
he added tenderly. 

“ When you say that, Edward, you make me feel for 
our poor Grace more than ever,” said Agnes softly. “ Yet, 
as you say, there seems no other way out of it. How is 
it you propose to break off the match ? ” 

“ Leave that to me, my dear, just for the present ; I 
wish to avoid distressing your tender heart more than is 
absolutely necessary. When I need your help I will tell 
you all. But in the meantime you must gradually — very 
gradually — cease your civilities to Mr. Sinclair. He is 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


269 


sharp enough in taking a hint, so be very careful not to 
give him an opportunity of asking you the reason of your 
change of manner. Indeed I am going to take him in 
hand myself, so that he will probably not think it neces- 
sary to put that question. You must drop him as gently 
as if he was made of glass, but never let Grace herself 
perceive that you are dropping him. She too, poor dear, 
I shall have to deal with, using, however, arguments very 
different from those in his case. Many difficulties lie 
before me, as you may suppose, Agnes, but you shall see 
that they are not insuperable. ” 

“You are a wonder, Edward,” she exclaimed with ad- 
miration. “It is your marvelous gift of persuasion that 
makes me sometimes doubt of you myself.” 

“ Great heavens, do you mean that you think I would 
deceive you , Agnes ? ” he exclaimed with indignation. 
“ This is a poor return indeed for long and loving service.” 

“ I only said sometimes, Edward,” she replied affection- 
ately ; “ you must not be hasty with your Agnes, even 
though she is sometimes hasty with you.” 

il It is not your haste, my dear, but your impatience that 
I object to,” he answered with a smile; “the present 
obstacle, however, will not, as you doubtless fear, delay 
our happiness, if all goes well with my plan.” 

“ I am glad to hear it, indeed, for I am sick of delays, 
Edward,” she answered, laying her jewelled hand upon his 
shoulder tenderly. 

“ And so am I, dear Agnes,” and to do him justice he 
looked sick. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

PLAIN SPEAKING. 

Mr. Roscoe had certainly no reason to be dissatisfied with 
the result of his interview with the head of the house. 
Agnes had agreed with his views, confessed herself as 
willing to assist his plans, and had almost forborne to 
question him about them. She had been content to leave 
matters in his hands, without even asking him what he 
had meant by saying that he had hoped to turn this mis- 
fortune that had happened to them to their own advantage. 
He would have told her if she had pressed him, but it 


270 


THE BURNT MILLION 


was a relief to his mind — already so heavily weighted — that 
she had not done so. He was not grateful to her, however, 
because he knew that she had something to gain by her for- 
bearance, and was also desirous to make up to him for the 
insolence (as he termed it) of her recent behavior. Phil- 
ippa he foresaw would not be so easily won over. She held 
not so much to gain by pleasing him, and nothing to atone 
for. He would have to explain his scheme to her, and it 
would be much more distasteful to her than it would have 
seemed to her sister ; she was more sentimental and soft- 
hearted, or, as he put it to himself with his usual frank- 
ness, in all things that concerned the feelings a greater fool. 
On the other hand, there were reasons why he could “say 
things ” to Philippa which he could not venture upon with 
her elder sister. He could be more masterful with her, if 
need were, and also, strange to say, more tender without 
compromising himself. Indeed his very first act on entering 
her boudoir was to put his arm round her waist and kiss 
her. 

“Goodness gracious!” she exclaimed, “what is the 
matter, Edward?” 

It was such a strange remark to make on such an occur- 
rence, had it been an unprecedented one, that we must 
take it for granted it had happened before ; indeed, it was 
not his caress at all, but the expression of his face, which 
was very grave and sad, which had evoked it. 

“A letter, my dear Philippa, has come to my dear 
brother to-day, which brings very bad news to you and me, 
and will require all your philosophy to bear it. Instead 
of an obstacle to our happiness being, as we fondly thought, 
removed, it threatens us with ruin.” 

“ With ruin ? ” 

“Yes; with nothing less. It is no use deceiving our- 
selves upon that point, nor will it help us to reproach me 
for follies, as you have called them, of which I have been 
guilty. I will own I have been a fool at once, and so save 
time, which has become indeed an object to us. It is no 
longer a question of patience with us, but of now or never. 
Read that.” And he put the document into her hand with 
a deep-drawn sigh. 

She read with a frightened face, and none of the fury 
her sister had shown. 

“ This is indeed most cruel and unexpected,” she said. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


271 


“ Unexpected? Why, of course it is,” he answered with 
irritation ; “ but as to cruel, you refer, I suppose, to the 
measures which it will be necessary to take with Grace : 
you can hardly imagine that I intend it to take effect as 
regards ourselves.” 

“ But how is it possible to avert it? ” 

“ Well, for one thing this marriage of course must be 
broken off.” 

“ Grace’s marriage ? Break off Jear Grace’s marriage 
with Walter? Oh, Edward, you could surely never have 
the heart to do it ! ” 

“ I mean to try, at all events,” he answered curtly. 
“ You must be a born idiot, Philippa, if you do not see the 
absolute necessity of it. A girl of her age is not so 
grievously to be pitied because she has made a false start 
in her first love venture. Women don’t break their hearts 
about men whom they have only known for a few months.” 

“ I will never consent to parting them,” cried Philippa, 
bursting into tears. 

“What? You prefer beggary, do you? Fortunately 
for you, I have an equal interest with yourself in this matter, 
and beggary will not suit me.” 

“ But why should there be anything of the kind, Edward ? 
I know dear Grace’s noble nature, and am very sure that 
when she comes to hear of this — for I conclude Walter has 
not told her ” 

“ I conclude so too,” interrupted Mr. Roscoe with bitter 
scorn, “ for I have good reason to believe that Walter does 
not know it himself. You may also be assured that he 
never will know it.” 

“ You have opened his letter then ? ” 

“ Most certainly I have. If you should ever dare to 
dream of telling him so I would throw it in the fire, and 
have you locked up for a mad woman for having imagined 
such a story. Scruples indeed ! You to have scruples ! 
Have you forgotten how your father died ? ” 

“ Oh, Heaven have pity upon me, since man has none ! ” 
cried the wretched woman, throwing herself into a chair 
and bursting into a torrent of tears. 

“ I am sorry to have been compelled to allude to so pain- 
ful an incident,” observed Mr. Roscoe coldly, “ but I can- 
not stand hypocrisy. You strain at a gnat after having 
swallowed a camel, hump and all. I really must decline 


272 


THE BURNT MILLION 


to listen to such folly. I came here for your advice and 
assistance ” 

“ My advice!” she interrupted bitterly “When did 
you ever ask for my advice, or take it when it was offered ? ” 

“ What I understand you to propose, madam, is that we 
should throw ourselves upon the generosity of Mr. Walter 
Sinclair per Grace, his wife, and accept whatever terms he 
may in his magnanimity offer us. For my part I absolutely 
refuse to accept his charity. It would be too humiliating, 
and also, I am very sure, too limited. If that be your 
advice, you are correct in supposing that I think it worth- 
less. Let me confine myself then to asking your assistance. 
I can get on without it, and as to any opposition on your 
part it would be fruitless, and you would repent it to the 
last hour of your life, though it would not perhaps be a 
very long one. Lives have been cut short in domestic 
circles before now ” 

“ Oh, spare me ! ” groaned the unhappy woman. 

“ By all means. I wish not only to spare you but to 
benefit you all I can, if you will only be a reasonable being. 
Though your help is not indispensable, it would be very 
welcome, and would certainly be of service in breaking the 
blow which necessity compels me to inflict upon your sis- 
ter. I regret it as much as yourself, but I have a plan in 
my head which in the end may not only turn this seeming 
misfortune to our advantage, but console Miss Grace for 
the loss of her lover.” 

“ Console her ? ” answered Philippa with bitter scorn. 
“ What can ever console a girl for such a loss ? ” 

“ Another lover.” 

The suggestion was offered in all good faith, and without 
the least touch of sarcasm, but had the speaker guessed its 
effect upon his hearer he would have given a good deal to 
have recalled its utterance. There are some subjects on 
which it is very dangerous for a man to confess his cyni- 
cism to one of the other sex. Philippa made no answer, 
which gratified her companion, since it bespoke submission 
to his will, but what he had said had fallen upon the little 
spark of respect for him that was still alive in her breast, 
and extinguished it for ever. Love still survived there, as 
it will do long after respect is dead ; but it was not the 
love it had been. Passion had long fled from it, Trust had 
well-nigh vanished too, and even Hope itself was on the 
wing. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


273 


“ Yes, Philippa/’ he continued after a long pause, ‘‘it is 
my intention that Grace shall marry my brother Richard” 

Numb and dulled as the poor woman’s feelings had be' 
come under the weight of that inevitable will, his words 
still evoked a shrill note of astonishment. 

“ Richard ! ” 

“Yes; you women plume yourselves on your sagacity 
in such matters, but I'll wager that the notion of Richard 
being in love with your sister has never entered into your 
mind. I have perceived it however, for many a day ; it is 
only with the utmost difficulty that he can conceal his pas- 
sion for her.” 

The tidings interested while it shocked her ; no matter 
how cramped and crushed may be a woman’s heart, there 
is one subject to which it never ceases to vibrate with 
sympathy. 

“ He has concealed it,” she observed. “ I am certain 
that Grace knows nothing of it.” 

“ Of course not — not a word, not a whisper, thanks to 
me ; any hint of it would have been most inconvenient, 
perhaps even detrimental to our plans. I persuaded him 
that his suit would be the maddest folly. It will be much 
easier to persuade him of the contrary. And if — as will as 
surely happen as I am a living man — these second nuptials 
shall be accomplished, instead of her having a husband of 
whose nature we know little, and who might have given 
us trouble in a hundred ways, she will have one who in my 
hands will be as clay to the potter, and so out of this nettle 
Danger we shall pluck the flower Safety.” 

“ And Grace ? ” 

“Well, Grace of course will be our difficulty, although 
the only one. I have a plan, however, which, sooner or 
later, will succeed even with Grace. We cannot of course 
expect that she will transfer her affections from one to the 
other so quickly as would be desirable. In love affairs a 
girls is never reasonable ; but still I have reasons, I think, 
that will not only persuade her to give Walter up, but will 
at least clear the way for Richard. She is well inclined 
to him already in a sisterly way. You don’t think 
much of that, and I don’t wonder; I use the phrase of 
course in its common acceptation, and she is not his sister. 
We all know what comes of such Platonic attachments, 
when no nearer one can be got. A woman who has been 

18 


274 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


‘disappointed/ as she calls it, will marry out of pique 
rather than not marry at all. She feels the need of ‘ some- 
thing to cling to/ and one stick will serve her turn as well 
as another.” 

He paused, but there was no reply. 

“ Do you hear me, madam? Are you favoring me with 
your attention?” he inquired passionately. 

“ Oh, yes, I hear you ! ” answered Philippa despairingly, 
“ and alas ! I understand you very well.” 

“ Then also heed. The help that I require from you is 
simply this : to cease from expressing any of that morbid 
sympathy which you have lavished — as it now turns out, 
have wasted — upon this interesting young couple. Without 
being rude to Walter, be cold and discouraging to him. 
Let him understand, but without giving a pretext for ask- 
ing for an explanation, that something has caused you to 
change your views of his pretensions. If he does ask, 
refer him to me. The task I set you is an easy one 
enough.” 

“It is not easy,” she answered in broken tones, “but 
since needs must, I will perform it.” 

“ There’s a good girl !” He patted her cheek — it was as 
cold as marble — as if she had been a child. “ You are 
about to do what is very distasteful to you, I know, and as 
you believe solely for my sake ; but it is for both our sakes. 
We shall be stronger — you and I — when this has come to 
pass, against the common enemy. Grace’s husband — and 
therefore Grace — will be on our side. Again I say that this 
document, which now seems so harmful to us, will prove 
beneficial to our interests.” 

“ What are you going to do with it ? ” she inquired in a 
faint voice. 

“Well, that is my business. I shall probably put it in 
the fire. Now I am going to Grace.” 

“ With that in your pocket ? ” she murmured apprehen- 
sively. 

“Why not? She can no more read it through this 
cloth ” — and he tapped his breast — “ than she can read my 
heart on the other side of it. It will be the hardest morn- 
ing’s work that I have ever had to do ; but ‘ men must 
work and women must weep,’ is the sentence that Fate 
has passed upon us. Good-bye, my dear, and wish me 
well through with it,” and once more he touched her cheek 
with his false lips. 


THE BURNT MILLION 


275 


She forced a smile as he left her, but it vanished as the 
door closed behind him, and was succeeded by a look of 
misery and despair. 

“ Wish him well ! ” — no, she did not even wish herself 
well. It was blasphemy to hope that good would come to 
anybody from what he was about to do. She pitied Grace 
from the bottom of her soul, but she pitied herself too. 
If Grace were doomed to lose her lover, she too had lost 
faith in the man to whom she had given her love. “ ‘ She 
cannot read my heart/ he said,” she moaned piteously ; 
“ how should she when he has no heart to read ? ” 


CHAPTER XL. 

THE "NAKED TRUTH. 

Although Mr. Roscoe had the entree to Grace's bower, 
as he had of her sisters', a visit from him, in her case, was 
by no means such a matter of course. His knock at her 
boudoir door, with the announcement of his name, in reply 
to a somewhat severe “ Who is that? ” — in a tone that is 
used by one who is engaged in some occupation not agree- 
able, but in which he does not wish to be disturbed — did 
not receive the ready “ Pray come in,” that he had been 
favored with on the two previous instances. He was kept 
waiting at the door time enough to note the circumstance ; 
moreover, when the permission to enter was given, it did 
not escape him that it was in a despondent voice. Grace 
indeed had been crying, as he saw at a glance, and also the 
reason of it, for although she had put away Mr. Aller ton’s 
letter, its envelope still lay on the table. 

“ I wish to have a few words with you, Grace, if you 
please. ” He never addressed her thus familiarly unless the 
subject was of an importance that seemed to excuse it. 

She bowed, and motioned him to a chair. Her silence, 
as he rightly judged, was compulsory ; she could not trust 
herself to speak. 

“ I am afraid you have had bad news this morning,” he 
murmured sympathetically. 

“ Nothing to speak of,” she answered coldly — so coldly 
indeed that the tone seemed almost to imply, “ nothing to 
speak of to you; it is my own affair.” 


276 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


“ I deeply regret it,” he answered gently, “ and the more 
so since I am myself — most unwillingly, as you may be 
sure — the bearer of evil tidings. But perhaps I have been 
anticipated,” and he looked significantly at the envelope. 

“ You mean the letter I have just received from Mr. 
Allerton? No, there is nothing in it of which I was not 
aware before.” 

“ He has heard, I suppose, of your proposed engage- 
ment ” (she looked up indignantly at that word “ proposed,” 
as he had known she would, and he kept his own eyes 
upon the floor), “ and has written to express his dissatisfac- 
tion with it. He takes a lawyer’s view of it, no doubt ; 
points out you are throwing yourself (by which he means 
your fortune) away in marrying one forbidden by your 
father’s will. If he has no argument to use but that, he 
might have saved his time, and you your six and eight- 
pence. It was my impression that he had written of a 
more serious obstacle.” 

“ I do not understand you, Mr. Roscoe — what other 
obstacle ? Not that it matters ; nothing that Mr. Allerton 
or any other person could say could affect the matter of 
which you speak. Indeed, I would not even listen to it.” 

“ Quite so,” he answered gravely ; “ no one has a right 
to interfere with your private affairs. Your regard for Mr. 
Sinclair is a sacred matter — I feel that myself. Let us sup- 
pose that what has come to my knowledge — and must needs 
come to his — aftects some one else, not him. If anything 
I am obliged to tell you seems to chime in with anything 
he has told you of his previous history, put that aside : 
judge the whole matter from without, as a mere looker-on, 
and decide upon it without favor or prejudice. That will 
be the honestest way of coming to a right decision.” 

She looked up at him, less in alarm than scorn, though 
she was alarmed, he saw ; what her face expressed beside 
its fear was a doubt of his being the sort of person to re- 
commend what was right, and especially upon the ground 
of honesty. The suggestion of this rather assisted him in 
his present purpose, because it set him against her, and 
stifled the feeble pity he had felt for her. 

“ I must go back a little,” he continued, “ to start with, 
into what to you must seem ancient history — to what hap- 
pened years ago, when you were a little child. 

<£ A certain man of business in the City, very wealthy, 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


277 


but whose only desire in the world was to increase his 
store, had a poor cousin in the country, who with the ex- 
ception of his own family was his only relative. They had 
been boys together at school, and he had perhaps as much 
regard for him as he was capable of feeling for anything 
outside his money bags. This cousin applied to him respect- 
ing the investment of a few thousands — almost all he had 
in the world — and the other gave him his advice. It was 
the most that he was ever known to give to anybody, and 
indeed it was generally of value. When I say ‘ gave,’ how- 
ever, it was never given for nothing. He was by trade a 
money-lender — a skinflint, or rather a skin-diamond, for he 
seldom concerned himself with any client who could not 
directly or indirectly (though more often the latter) repay 
him handsomely for his services. In the case of his cousin, 
however, he charged him nothing (at first), and recom- 
mended him an investment which, though speculative, he 
had every reason to believe would turn out to be exceed- 
ingly profitable. It was, if I remember right (but this can 
be easily certified) a certain mine in Cornwall. The money- 
lender indeed thought so well of it that he had placed a 
sum to which the other’s subscription (though it was, as I 
have said, his all) was a mere bagatelle in the speculation 
himself. As time went on the mine ceased to perform the 
promise it had given, and its shares fell lower and lower 
in the market till they almost became valueless. Then the 
man in the country, grievously alarmed, as he well might 
be, wrote to his kinsman for his advice again. 1 1 am sure 
you did the best for me you could,’ he said, ‘and indeed 
must have lost your own money. Of course I have not a 
word of reproach to write, but I am well-nigh ruined, so 
be so good as to dispose of these unhappy shares for me 
at whatever they realize. I am resolved to go to America, 
there to endeavor to make a livelihood for my wife and 
son, which is denied them here.’ It was a pathetic letter 
(I read it with my own eyes), and almost touched the 
money-lender, but not quite. He knew more about the 
mine than anyone else, except its manager, who was in his 
pay, and had privately given him news that a lode of great 
extent had just been discovered in it. Without an expen- 
diture of sixpence, and by merely telling his cousin to 
‘ hold on,’ he could have made a fortune for him ; but the 
temptation of adding some thousands, at the price of a few 


278 


THE BURNT MILLION, \ 


pounds, to his illgotten gains, was too strong for him ; he 
wrote to the poor cousin, saying that the shares were un- 
saleable, but that for the sake of old times, and because the 
same blood ran in his veins (for there was nothing on earth 
that the man did not make subservient to his own aggran- 
disement), he would purchase them himself for, I think 
(but this also can be ascertained, no doubt), for 300/. 
The offer was accepted ; the cousin emigrated with his 
wife and son on the proceeds of the transaction, and the 
money-lender within twelve months made 20,000/. by it.” 

“ What has this hateful act by this wicked man to do 
with me ? ” inquired Grace defiantly. 

“ Nothing. You hear of it of course for the first time; 
but let me conclude my story. The cousin by some means 
or other learnt how he had been cheated, and told the 
story to his son, without, however (as I have good reason 
to believe, though I cannot understand this reticence), 
revealing the name of the relative who had robbed him. 
The result of that robbery was that the mother, succumb- 
ing to the fatigues and privations, died soon after, and the 
father, after a hard and wretched life, was slain by Indians ; 
the son 

He paused, and looked at Grace with keen significance. 
Her face was white as death ; but there was a fire in her 
eyes and in her tone, as she exclaimed, “ Go on.” 

“ The son, I am grieved to say, Grace, is Walter Sinclair, 
and the man who robbed his father was your father.” 

“ You lie ! ” she thundered. “ My father was the best and 
kindest of men.” 

“ Was he ? Ask your friend, Mr. Allerton — he knows. 
Ask Lord Morelia who was the money-lender who caught 
his son, Lord Cheribert, in his meshes, and stripped him 
of thousands. Ask your sisters and they will tell you 
what everybody else is aware of except yourself, that the 
man who thus made gold his idol, and sacrificed his kins- 
man to it (as he had sacrificed hundreds of others), was 
no other than Joseph Tremenhere.” 

Of the last part of this speech Grace had no knowledge ; 
she had thrown up her arms before it was concluded, and 
with a piteous cry of desolation and despair had fallen on 
the ground in a dead faint. Under such circumstances 
man, unless he is medical, is generally useless and inclined 
to run away, but Mr. Roscoe was not an ordinary specimen 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


279 


of his sex \ moreover, even had he preferred “ absence of 
body to presence of mind,” the apprehension of what she 
might say to other ears on coming to herself kept him in 
the path of duty. He lifted her up in his strong arms and 
placed her on the sofa, from which he removed the pillow, 
and sprinkling a little water on her face from the jug in 
the next room, which he did not scruple to enter, awaited 
events with a philosophical mind. Grace did not come to 
herself for some minutes, and when she did so still re- 
mained with closed eyes, only too conscious doubtless of 
whom she would behold should she open them. 

“ Does Walter know ? ” were her first words. 

“ No, dear Grace, of course not,” answered her com- 
panion comfortingly. “ I came here to spare you that ; 
but of course he must be put in possession of the facts 
sooner or later. From what I have heard of his devotion 
to the memory of his father, what has come to light is a 
thing that he can never forget or forgive. Of course you 
had nothing to do with it, but there is the sentiment, you 
see.” 

She put up her hand as if in appeal for silence. 

“ You feel that yourself, I’m sure. It is only too obvious 
that all between you and him must be over. There is no 
need to mention the real cause to anybody — not to Mr. 
Allerton, for instance ; but only to your sisters, and even 
that is only as you please. Trust to me to arrange this 
unhappy matter so as to give you — and even Walter also 
— as little pain as possible. You will find no doubt in the 
letter you received this morning an excuse that will satisfy 
the outside world.” Her hand moved feebly in the direction 
of the door. “ You wish to be left alone. No doubt that 
is your wisest course. This is a thing to be thought about, 
and not talked about, even with one who has your interests 
so near at heart as I have. But I need scarcely impress 
upon you that there is only one course to be pursued. If 
you could make the effort, it would save a world of distress 
and pain to both of you if you would give me a few words 
in writing just to authorize me to act for you as regards 
Walter. Write, for instance, ‘ Seek not to see me ; Mr. 
Roscoe will tell you all,’ and sign it. That will be quite 
sufficient.” He pushed the writing materials that lay upon 
the table close to her hand, and she feebly raised herself, 
and with a dazed, despairing look obeyed him. 


28o 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


“ That’s a brave girl. Do not hate me, Grace, for the 
part I have been obliged to play in this miserable business,” 
and with that he left her. 

She tottered to the door, locked it, and then sank into a 
chair. Except that her position was one of utter misery, 
for the moment she hardly realized it. She had fallen 
from the highest rung of the ladder of human happiness on 
the stones of blank despair. An hour ago she had pos- 
sessed everything that fortune could give her, and now 
she was a beggar whose wretchedness no alms could 
repair. She had already lost her father, and it had 
been a bitter trial to her, but she had now lost him 
again in a far more dreadful manner. Would she had 
never known him at all ! To think how she had loved 
him — yes, and he her; had she not been his “pet,” his 
“joy,” his “little fairy”? — and all in vain — or as it 
seemed in vain ; for she had in truth been loving another 
father, shaped out of her own childish imagination, and 
with whom this real one had nothing in common. She 
had no doubt now of her wretched and irretrievable error. 
A hundred evidences of what had been his calling, though 
not one of them had witnessed against him before, crowded 
on her mind. And even still — there was the pity of it — 
she loved him. An oppressor of the needy, one who took 
advantage of the necessities of his fellow-creatures, and an 
unfair advantage — a thief, a thief, a thief ! — and yet she 
loved him still. 

Her Walter too was lost for ever — a thought sufficient 
of itself to make death a boon (ah ! if she could but die !) ; 
but for the moment even that thought was overwhelmed 
by the spectacle of what had been the idol of her life 
shattered in fragments before her, with its front of brass 
and feet of clay 1 


CHAPTER XLI. 

RICHARD TO THE RESCUE. 

“ As easy as lying,” is a common proverb, but it must have 
been invented by an optimist ; one might just as well say 
“ as easy as writing fiction,” which is not such a facile thing 


THE BURNT MILLION. 281 

as those who have not tried it are apt to imagine. Mr. 
Edward Roscoe was a past master in the art of “ making 
the thing that is not as the thing that is,” but now and then 
even he found it a difficult job. When he left Grace 
Tremenhere’s boudoir the perspiration stood upon his 
brow, so severe had been his exertion in that way, though 
indeed he had not been exactly lying, but only what doctors 
and prize-fighters call “ putting on flesh ” as regarded what 
was a very genuine skeleton of fact. The task that lay 
before him now seemed simple in comparison with that 
severe operation, for it is so much easier to deal with a 
man, where the affections are concerned, than with a 
woman, and his next “call” — as ruinous as that of a broken 
bank on its unhappy shareholders — was on Walter Sinclair. 
Most men in his position would at least have taken that 
stolen document out of his breast pocket, and either 
destroyed it or put it in some place of safety, before seek- 
ing an interview with its rightful owner ; but Mr. Roscoe’s 
heart was furnished with the triple brass of the poet, and 
indeed there was a great amount of the same material in 
the whole of his composition. 

He found Walter at his desk busily engaged on some 
subject connected with his future work, “ plan, elevation 
and section,” drawn by rule and line ; a miracle of mechan- 
ical neatness to which Mr. Roscoe paid his little tribute of 
admiration before entering on the matter in hand. 

“ How I envy you your dexterity ! ” he observed. “ I 
am so clumsy with my fingers myself that such work as 
yours looks like magic. I am sorry to interrupt it, but the 
fact is I have got some bad news for you, which does not 
admit of delay.’ 

“ Bad news ! ” exclaimed Walter, throwing down pencil 
and compass, and looking up at him with some suspicion 
as well as alarm, which the other did not fail to note 

“Yes, it is bad news, but, believe me, I am only the 
unwilling bringer of it, and not the cause.” 

“ From whom do you come, then ? ” 

“ From Miss Grace. Here are my credentials.” 

Walter took the strip of paper, and read in what he knew 
was her hand — though the writing was blurred and trem- 
bling — “ Seek not to see me. Mr. Roscoe will tell you all. — 
Grace Tremenhere.” 

“ Great heaven ! ” he said, “ what is the meaning of 
this ? ” 


282 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


“The meaning is that she bids you farewell — that all is 
over between you.” 

“It is false ! ” cried Walter passionately. 

Mr. Roscoe shrugged his shoulders. “ It is her writing, 
not mine,” he said. “ She chose me for the duty I am 
compelled to perform. You may add to its unpleasantness 
by insulting me, but I shall perform it all the same.” 

“ Say what you have got to say, sir, though I will never 
believe that she told you to say it.” 

“ That’s a matter which — if you don’t mind her break- 
ing her heart — you can learn from her own lips, but she 
was in hopes that for the sake of all that has passed be- 
tween you you would spare her.” 

“Go on !” exclaimed the young man fiercely. 

“ The person against whom your passion should be 
directed, if it must have an object,” continued Mr. Roscoe, 
“ is your friend, Mr. Allerton. He has discovered, I know 
not how, that you have been paying your attentions to Miss 
Grace, and a letter has come to her from him this morning. 
So much I know of myself. What the letter contains I 
have learnt only from her. He is her guardian and trustee, 
you know.” 

“ I know that,” put in the other impatiently. 

“ Well, since that is the case, he has a right, not indeed 
to dispose of her hand, but to see the disposal of it does 
not involve the loss of her fortune. It is his simple duty, 
and one in aid of which he could, and would, invoke the 
law.” 

“ That is not true,” replied Walter ; “ I mean as regards 
the loss of her fortune. She told me so with her own 
lips.” 

“ I think you must be mistaken there,” said Mr. Roscoe 
mildly. “ She could not have said that, because she is 
acquainted with the terms of her father’s will.” 

“ She did not say so in so many words ; but she told me, 
when I spoke of the gulf that existed between us as regards 
disparity of fortune, that there was no such gulf.” 

Mr. Roscoe smiled a pitying smile. 

“ She was right there, my poor fellow. If she married 
you there would indeed be no such disparity, because by 
doing so she would have lost her fortune. It was love that 
caused her so to express herself ; I do not deny for a mo- 
ment that she loves you. We all know it, and in our love 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


283 

for her we were all willing that she should sacrifice her all 
because we felt that in that sacrifice she would find her 
happiness. We are not lawyers, nor her trustees and 
guardians, as Mr. Allerton is. It is just possible (though 
I have a better opinion of you) that even now, in the teeth 
of his opposition (which, however, will be very formidable 
I promise you), you may press your suit. But would it be 
honorable, would it become anyone calling himself a man, 
to take advantage of the simplicity and affection of a young 
girl under such circumstances, even if she were prepared 
to give up what is nothing less than a huge fortune, and 
to accept a life of poverty for your sake — and I honestly 
tell you that she is not so prepared, and sends me here to 
tell you so ? Would you take her on such terms? If I 
know you, Walter Sinclair, as the son of an honest man, 
and an honest man yourself, you would not so take her.” 

Walter turned from his companion, and with his elbows 
on the desk and his face hidden in his hands, uttered one 
solitary groan, the knell of his bright hopes. 

“ Of course it is a terrible trial to you ; but it was a 
worse one to her. The struggle between love and duty is 
always a cruel one ; but Grace is duty itself. She idolized 
her father, and what he expressly forbad (as Mr. Allerton 
pointed out to her) she repents of having been about to do. 
You loved and respected your father, Walter; would you 
not hesitate to disobey his last solemn injunctions ? I think 
you would.” 

“ Stop ! there is something wrong here,” exclaimed the 
young man suddenly, rising slowly from his seat, and con- 
fronting his companion with so keen a glance that it 
needed all his hardihood to meet it coolly. “ When we 
were on the river this summer Lord Cheribert was with us. 
He was himself in love with Grace (how indeed could he 
help it, poor fellow ! ). Everyone knows it as well as I 
except perhaps Grace herself ; Mr. Allerton knew it, and 
if, as you say — but I forgot, he was a wealthy man.” 

“ Just, so,” said Mr. Roscoe persuasively. ( “ Thank 
heaven, this fool has never looked at Josh’s will for him- 
self,” was his inward reflection.) “ Or, if he was not wealthy, 
he had vast expectations. He would have brought as much 
as he found. There were not the same objections to him 
as in your case, though there were objections.” 

“ Nevertheless I must see her,” exclaimed Walter desper- 


284 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


ately. “ There may be some way of escape, some loophole. 
Or the whole thing may be a mistake, a plot. You villain, 
you dog ! ” he cried, seizing the other by his coat collar 
(within an inch of where the secret lay), “ if this is any 
plan of yours to part us, I will have your heart’s blood.” 

“ Be so good as to unhand me, sir, for my own temper 
is somewhat short,” said Mr. Roscoe resolutely. “ This is 
scarcely the reward one looks for for breaking bad news to 
a fellow-creature. Go to Grace then by all means, and 
put the finishing stroke to Mr. Allerton’s morning’s work. 
Only if it kills her, sir, it will be no less than murder.” 

“ Go, go, or there will be murder here /” exclaimed the 
young man furiously, and throwing open the door he thrust 
the other from the room, slammed the door behind him, 
and locked himself in. The whole thing did not take a 
minute, but it was full of “ action.” The impression on 
Mr. Roscoe’s mind, though not upon his body, was that he 
had been kicked out. 

“ I will be even with you for this, my lord,” was what 
he muttered to himself with lips pale with rage, though if 
he could have looked at matters with an unprejudiced eye, 
the obligation still lay upon the other side. 

Left to his own maddening thoughts, Walter Sinclair sat 
at his desk, with that scrap in Grace’s handwriting spread 
out before him, “ Seek not to see me. Mr. Roscoe will 
tell you all,” examining it with the anxious scrutiny one 
might have bestowed upon a cryptogram, who is conscious 
of a lack of clearness in his mind necessary for its elucida- 
tion. The words indeed were plain enough, and their 
meaning had been explained to him with sufficient distinct- 
ness, but was it the true meaning ? Upon the whole he 
was forced to the conclusion that it was. If it was a lie, 
one line from Allerton, not to mention one word from 
Grace’s lips, would, as Roscoe must be well aware, have 
confuted it. His arguments indeed had from a worldly 
point of view been overwhelming. Cursed be the gold that 
is weighed in the scales with true love, but it kicks the 
beam. To Grace’s guardian and trustee it could not seem 
otherwise, nor did he blame him ; he only blamed the gold. 
With Grace herself he knew it had no such weight ; but 
that very fact, as Roscoe had pointed out, should prevent 
him from pressing his suit. Her simplicity and ignorance, 
her girlish contempt for the gifts of fortune were only 


THE BURNT MILLION, 


285 


apparent allies ; it would be cowardly to take advantage 
of those means if he could bring himself to do so ; there 
were her father’s last injunctions which in her new-found 
love she had perhaps forgotten till the lawyer had reminded 
her of them. He had vaguely heard that Mr. Tremenhere 
had made his fortune as a money-lender, a circumstance 
that had in no way affected him. He might have been a 
good man for all that ; that he had been a loving father to 
Grace was certain, and she had reciprocated his love with 
all the warmth of her nature. He was himself devoted to 
his father’s memory, and, as Roscoe had cunningly sur- 
mised, that circumstance had great weight with him ; he 
put himself in Grace’s place, and sided with her, as it were, 
against himself. 

Still to part with him without a word of farewell seemed 
unnatural, hard and cruel, and utterly foreign to Grace’s 
nature. True, there was her handwriting before him, 
“ Seek not to see me.” The question was, by what pro- 
cess had those words been wrung from her ? If she had 
written them of her own free will his duty was plain : he 
must pack up his things and leave Halswater Hall at once. 
When he had gone away — whither he could not tell ; all 
places seemed alike to him, and all hateful — he would 
write and wish her farewell. She could reply to him or 
not, as she pleased. He staggered into his bedroom, and 
began putting his clothes together with blind haste. 
While thus occupied he heard a violent knock at his sitting- 
room door. 

“ Who is it ? ” he asked hoarsely. 

“ It is I, Richard Roscoe. Open.” 

To see anyone just then was a trial he was ill-fitted to 
undergo ; the thought of an interview with this man, half 
mad as he believed him to be, and wholly unfitted to sym- 
pathize with such a calamity as had befallen him, was 
especially distasteful to him. 

“ I am busy,” he called out. 

“ No matter,” was the impatient reply, “ I must see 
you.” And again came the loud summons at the door. 

Fearing that the servants would be alarmed, and a dis- 
turbance created, when it was so necessary that anything 
of the kind should be avoided, he opened the door, and a 
moment afterwards repented of it. 

Richard Roscoe stood before him, his face white and 


286 


THE BURNT MILLION 


wet, his hair dishevelled, his eyes rolling with what seemed 
like phrenzy, and, in a word, more like a madman than 
he had ever seen him. He entered hastily, and at once 
relocked the door. 

“ Don’t be afraid of me,” he said in breathless tones, as 
though he had perceived what was passing through the 
other’s mind ; “lam not mad, though I have heard enough 
to make me so. What are you doing here ? Packing up ? 
I thought so. What is that paper in Grace’s hand? ” 

In one stride he had reached the desk and read her 
words. 

“ How dare you ? ” exclaimed Walter passionately. 

“ Sir, I dare anything for Grace’s sake,” was the unex- 
pected rejoinder. “ ‘ Mr. Roscoe will tell you all,’ she 
says, but she does not know the man as his brother does. 
i Seek not to see me.’ But you shall see her. Sit down, 
Walter Sinclair, and listen to ?ne.” 


CHAPTER XLII. 

THE BROTHERS. 

After the unpleasant parting Mr. Edward Roscoe had 
had with Walter Sinclair, it might have seemed probable 
that he would have had enough of interviews for the day ; 
but not only was his brother Richard, to whom he had 
also a word or two to say, under the same roof and close 
at hand, but the very violence with which he had been 
treated in the one case was a spur to him in the other. 
His anger against the young man was very great, and, as 
it happened, the communication he had to make to Richard 
comprehended in it the greatest blow to Walter’s hopes 
that could possibly be struck, “ which,” as a greater hypo- 
crite than even Mr. Roscoe has observed before him, “ was 
very soothing.” He had no doubt, in spite of the self- 
restraint his brother had used in his relations with Grace, 
that his feeling towards her remained unchanged, and also 
that, notwithstanding his apparent friendship with her 
lover, he in reality regarded him with all the disfavor of an 
unsuccessful rival. Though far from falling into the error 
of less sagacious scoundrels in judging his fellow-creatures 


THE BURNT MILLION. 287 

by himself, Mr. Roscoe was incapable of understanding 
such a virtue as magnanimity. 

It was, in fact, in a tone which honestly expressed his 
convictions that as soon as he had entered his brother’s 
room he observed with cheerful gravity : 

“ Richard, my lad, I have got some good news for you ! ” 

“ Indeed,” answered Richard bitterly, as he rose from 
his seat to greet him, and put down the book he had been 
reading, “ then it must be very strange news.” 

“It is strange news, my good fellow — stranger than 
anything you can have imagined, better than anything you 
can have dreamt of! Sit down and listen to it, for it will 
make your limbs tremble under you with joy. The en- 
gagement between Grace and Walter Sinclair has been 
broken off,” 

“ What? ” only a word, only a monosyllable, but what 
a tumult of emotions — -hope and love and pity and amaze- 
ment — did it express ! The very face of the man was 
transfigured with them. 

“ Yes, it is as true as death. The whole thing is over ; 
Grace is now fancy free — is at all events free to have a 
fancy for someone else. There is now a chance for you , 
man ! ” 

Richard looked at him with wondering eyes ; he was so 
full indeed of astonishment that he was unable to take in 
the whole situation as it was thus suddenly presented to 
him. He did not even catch the meaning of his brother’s 
words, which could certainly not have been from their 
want of distinctness. His mind could hardly grasp the 
stupendous fact that had been disclosed to him, far less its 
probable consequences. 

“ Have they quarreled ? ” he inquired in a hoarse whis- 
per. 

“ I am happy to say they have not, for we all know 
what lovers’ quarrels end in. The thing goes far deeper 
than that. You may take my word for it that they will 
never see one another again.” 

Mr. Edward Roscoe’s word was a guarantee beyond 
suspicion to almost everybody at Halswater Hall, but 
(doubtless because of the eccentricity of Richard’s charac- 
ter) his brother seemed to doubt it ; nay, with a frankness 
that, however common in the western wilds, is unusual in 
polite society, he coldly replied, “ I don’t believe you, Ed- 


2 88 


THE BURNT MILLION 


ward. It is only because you have some end of your own 
to serve that you wish to make me credit such an incredi- 
ble statement.” 

“ A very natural supposition, my dear Dick,” answered 
the other cheerfully, “ and one that does honor to your 
intelligence ; but you have only to step across the passage 
into Walter’s room to get the matter certified. I wouldn’t 
do it just now, if I were you, because he’s rather upset 
about it ; there will be plenty of time before he starts, 
though I suppose he will be off this afternoon.” 

“ Do you mean to say he is leaving Halswater ? ” 

“ Well, I conclude he is. From what I have told you 
you will see for yourself that no other course is open to 
him.” 

“ How did it come about? ” inquired Richard. 

“ Well, it was all through Mr. Allerton. He is her 
guardian, and has forbidden the banns, as he has the power 
to do. If she had had any sense she would have married 
Walter at once, and then written to the lawyer to say so ; 
but he has somehow discovered her engagement, and put 
his foot down on it. She will be wiser next time, Dick, 
you may take your oath of that.” 

“ And she has given him up because the lawyer tells her 
to do so ? ” 

“ I don’t say that exactly ; there are other reasons I am 
bound in honor not to go into, and which you must not 
press me about. But what is the main thing — as concerns 
yourself — the match is broken off.” 

“ Poor lad, poor lad ! ” 

“ Well, of course one is sorry for him, but one must look 
after oneself in this world. It is an ill wind that blows 
nobody good, and without your having any hand in it, 
without your having the least thing to reproach yourself 
with, a good opportunity has opened to you. I suppose, 
though you did what you could to smother your affection 
for the young woman, the cinders of it are still alive ? ” 

“ I love Grace — oh. yes. I love her still ! ” murmured 
Richard softly. 

“ That’s right. You have a faithful heart, I know, Dick. 
So have I, though the object of its desire maybe a little 
different. We both stick to our views. It runs in the 
family. Well, you know what I told you of the reason 
that first caused me to write you to come home from 


THE BURNT MILLION 


289 


America. Circumstances did away with that reason for the 
time, but it has now sprung to life again. I had a matri- 
monial engagement for you in my mind, which I must con- 
fess is a merely practical one ; the idea never entered into 
it that the young woman I designed for you would become 
the girl of your heart, but fortunately it has so turned out. 
A few hours ago she was altogether out of your reach, now 
she has come within it ; you have only to put your arms 
about her, though I need not say that must be done in a 
most cautious and delicate fashion. At first of course she 
will be inconsolable for the loss of her first love ; but little 
by little the gilt of sentiment will be rubbed off, and half a 
loaf — if I may say so without offence, for you are really 
neither so young nor so good-looking as Sinclair — will seem 
better than no bread.” 

“ I see,” said Richard gently (he had his hands before 
his eyes, and seemed lost in thought), then added with 
effort, like one rousing himself from sleep, “ What would 
you have me do ? ” 

“ Just now, nothing. What I would recommend for the 
present is a ‘ masterly inaction ■ ; bide your time, by which 
of course 1 mean your opportunity ; sooner or later it is 
sure to come. Be as gentle and sympathizing with the girl 
as you please, but do not drop a word of love. She will 
want something to cling to, and in due course that should 
be you. There will be objections to you, as there were to 
Sinclair, on the lawyer’s part, no doubt, but she will not 
sacrifice her happiness a second time for a mere sentiment, 
which by then moreover will have grown weaker. Upon 
the whole,” concluded Mr. Roscoe cheerfully, “ I really 
believe this misfortune, as it first seemed to us, will turn 
out but a blessing in disguise.” 

“ It is very good of you to take such an interest in my 
affairs,” observed Richard. 

His brother glanced up at him very sharply, but there 
was nothing to be read on the other’s face but a settled 
gloom. 

“ Blood is thicker than water, my lad,” answered Edward. 
“ It will give me unfeigned pleasure to see you comfort- 
ably settled in life; but I must frankly add that it will be 
also advantageous to myself. As Grace’s husband you will 
be one of the family, and I shall be able to arrange matters 
with you much more easily than with a stranger — such as 


290 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


Sinclair for example. I shall feel easier in my mind by- 
the-bye when that young gentleman is out of the house.” 

“ You are sure that he will not insist upon seeing Grace 
before he takes his departure ? ” 

“That is quite settled. To do him justice, he acknow- 
ledged when I pointed it out to him that would be a most 
selfish act, and would only give her unnecessary pain : it 
would also (which I did not point out to him) be a most 
dangerous experiment.” 

“ You mean to our interests ? ” 

“ Well, of course in the presence of the once beloved 
object she might lose sight of her obvious duty. She has 
made up her mind to perform it, and it would be madness 
to give him the chance of shaking her resolution. He too 
has come to the same decision. But if he could be per- 
suaded to be off at once, without seeing any member of 
the family, it would be a great point gained. He is attached 
to you, and has not the least suspicion of your feelings to- 
wards Grace ; it would be well if you could persuade him 
to leave at once. You can tell him that I will gladly ex- 
plain matters for him to Agnes and Philippa.” 

“ I will,” said Richard decisively. 

“ That’s a good fellow. In the mean time, while you 
are getting him away, I will see that all is safe in the other 
quarter. Use all the arguments you can think of, and 
remember that you are now taking the first step on the 
road to your happiness. When I next see you I hope we 
shall have the cottage to ourselves,” and with that he left 
the room. 

Notwithstanding the readiness with which he had fallen 
in with his brother’s suggestion, Richard did not at once 
proceed upon his promised errand. He stood with his 
eyes closed and his hands clasped tightly before him ; his 
lips moved as if in prayer, and the words, “ deliver us from 
temptation,” fell from them in broken tones. If his brother 
could have seen him, he would certainly have said, “ This 
man is mad,” yet even so perhaps would not have deemed 
him too mad to marry. “ Walter, Walter ! ” he murmured 
to himself pitifully, and then in still tenderer tones, 
“ Grace, Grace ! ” The struggle within him, as it showed 
itself in his face, was terrible to witness ; now his better 
nature and now his worse seemed to be getting the upper 
handj at last the former triumphed, but with so great 


THE BURNT MILLION 


291 


difficulty, with such a dead lift of all his powers for good, 
that he could not trust himself to let the debate begin again. 
He ran out of the room and knocked at Walter’s door, cry- 
ing “ Open, open ! ” Despair was in his heart, but of 
every thought of baseness it had been swept clean. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

METHOD IN HIS MADNESS. 

Though the look and manner of Richard Roscoe were so 
strange and wild, there was a fervor and earnestness in the 
tone in which he said, “ Sit down and I will tell you all,” 
that commanded Sinclair’s attention ; even a madman may 
have a story to tell that has nothing to do with his own 
state of mind, and may have pith and moment in it. 

“ You see before you an unfortunate man,” he began, 
“ but not a rogue and a liar ; you may trust me — yes, you 
may trust me now — as your father trusted me before ; you 
may say indeed to his own undoing, but that was owing to 
no fault of mine, but to human weakness, and you have 
heard the worst of it from my own lips.” 

“ I do not think you were to blame in that matter,” said 
Walter gently ; “ if you were so, though it was a dreadful 
business, you have my full forgiveness, as I am sure you 
had that of my poor father.” 

“ I thank you for saying so, my lad, with all my heart. 
With such words in my ears I should be a villain indeed 
were I to play you false. It is not a pleasant thing to 
have to say that one’s own mother’s son is a rascal, but 
there is no help for it but to confess as much ; my brother 
Edward is one of that sort. He has been so from his 
cradle. Yes, Heaven knows that I have tried to think 
otherwise, though I have had proof enough to the contrary. 
It seems an unnatural and ungrateful thing to speak, when 
I am at this moment sharing the roof and eating the bread 
that his good offices have obtained for me. And let me 
tell you, Walter Sinclair, he has promised me much more 
— a reward so great that I dare not even think of it — if I 
will only join him in his cursed plans and help to accom- 
plish your ruin ! ” 


THE BURNT MILLION 


292 

“ My ruin ? ” cried Walter in astonishment. 

“Yes, what else? To tear you from her you love, tc 
take away the only object from you that serves to make 
life worth the living, to drive you out of Paradise into a 
barren land, where not a flower grows nor a bird sings, 
and the sun itself only rises to show you your own wretch- 
edness — is not that ruin ? ” 

“ It is indeed,” groaned Walter ; “ I have been face to 
face with it for what seems an eternity, the last hour.” 

“ Well, that shall not be. Had I been in your case no 
power on earth would have made me believe that those 
words written by Grace’s hand came from her heart.” 

“ But your brother ” 

“Still less would I have believed his words,” broke in 
the other contemptuously. “You did not know him, it is 
true, as I know him, but you knew her , and how could you 
think even for an instant that the advice of a lawyer or 
the reflection that she should lose money by it — were it 
millions — would cause that angelic nature to break her 
plighted word and forsake the man she loves? ” 

“ It is not the money, Richard — though that has weight 
with me, though not with her — nor the arguments of her 
guardian ; it is ‘ the dead hand ’ that has turned her from 
me, the last injunction of a loving father.” 

“ That is what Edward told you, did he ? ” answered 
Richard bitterly. “ He said there were other reasons for 
which I must not press. His delicacy of mind was always 
extraordinary, though he forgot it for a moment in taking 
it for granted that I was even a greater scoundrel than 
himself. I don’t believe his story. There is at all events 
some huge lie at the bottom of his mountain of words ; 
there always is, if you dig deep enough. I am here to 
help you to dig.” 

“ I am infinitely obliged to you,” said Walter hoarsely, 
“ only show me where to put the spade in.” 

“ Well, to begin with, stop where you are till you find 
there are real grounds for your departure, and, above all, 
take no dismissal save from Grace’s own lips.” 

“ She says, ‘ Seek not to see me,’ answered Walter 
piteously “ I love her too dearly to disobey her.” 

“She does not say it, she writes it,” answered Richard 
confidently, “ which is a very different thing. I have 
known men, captive in Indian hands, compelled to write 


THE BURNT MILLION 


293 


things to their friends quite other than what their hearts 
dictated, yet their end, poor souls, was all the same ; and 
so it will be with Grace, if you give way to this wretched 
scruple. When he has his point to gain, Edward is an 
Indian — subtle, treacherous, and, though not delighting, 
as they do, in the torture they inflict, utterly callous to it. 
Somehow or other — I have not his wits and cannot read 
his brain, but I know the man — somehow or other Grace 
Tremenhere has become his'captive ; his net is round her 
— she is beating her tender wings against it, poor soul, 
poor soul ! — but his will is her will, and these words his 
words. If such a stake were worth speaking of, I would 
lay my life upon it.” 

The rude eloquence of his words was backed by an 
earnestness and conviction that would have made their 
way to any heart, even had it harbored no such desire to 
be convinced as Walter’s did. 

“ I will stay here till Grace tells me to go,” he said. 
il How can I ever thank you enough for bringing me this 
ray of hope ? ” 

“ You never can,” was the grave rejoinder. “ Thank 
Heaven that sent me here instead. Remain in your room 
whatever happens till I come back with tidings of how the 
land lies. Budge for nobody, and least of all for my 
brother: he has no more right to give you notice to quit 
the Hall than I have. No one has any right to do it save 
Grace only.” 

It was strange to see one so eccentric thus dictating a 
course of action to another of sane mind, and so it struck 
Walter himself ; but when we desire anything very much 
we are not solicitous to inquire clearly into the capacity or 
the motives of those who volunteer their assistance to 
us. The notion of any plot having been devised against 
him never entered Walter’s head, but, once there, it filled 
him with an indignation that would have astonished the 
plotter. A generous and impulsive nature is easily im- 
posed upon, but having discovered that it has been so, it 
often becomes more dangerous to deal with than a more 
calculating one. It has a wrong to humanity to avenge as 
well as its private wrong — a sentiment which is absolutely 
unintelligible to the mere scoundrel. It was fortunate 
perhaps for all parties, but certainly for Mr. Edward Ros- 
coe, that his impatience to see Walter out of the house 


294 


THE BURNT MILLION 


did not urge him to pay that young gentleman another 
visit till some time had elasped after Richard’s revelation 
to him. When he did come, “ Bradshaw ” in hand, Walter 
had cooled down, and was found, though with a somewhat 
trembling hand, engaged as before upon his plan drawing. 

“ You have not much time to lose, my good fellow,” said his 
visitor with friendly solicitude, “ if you want, as I conclude, 
to catch the night mail. I have ordered the dogcart to 
be around in twenty minutes.” 

“ I am sorry that you should have troubled yourself, 
Mr. Roscoe, but if I go to-day it will only be to my old 
quarters at the head of the lake, and I should not go even 
so far as that without saying good-bye to Grace.” 

“ Not surely after her expressed wish that you should 
not seek to see her, Mr. Sinclair ? ” answered the other, 
in a tone of mild astonishment that suited ill with his 
knitted brow. 

“Yes, I remember what she wrote perfectly well, but I 
intend to hear that wish from her own lips. It is possible 
that I may have given you a contrary impression. I have 
also heard all your brother had to say upon the subject ; 
but I have been thinking over the matter since, and that 
is the resolution to which I have come. And it is not to 
be broken.” 

“ Nothing, Mr. Sinclair, but your youth and inexperience 
can excuse such a conclusion,” observed the other calmly. 
“ It is an outrage upon hospitality, to say the least of it. 
You will compel me to ask Miss Agnes herself to give 
you your conge.” 

“ I shall not take it even from her, but only from Grace 
herself.” 

“ Then you will at least take the consequences,” ex- 
claimed Mr. Roscoe furiously, “ for in that case I will 
have you turned out by the servants.” 

“ You have dropped your mask, however,” replied Wal- 
ter coolly — though indeed the other’s face had lost its 
natural expression and become a mask, with rage and 
malignity painted upon it— “ that saves me all further cir- 
cumlocution, at which I am at such a disadvantage with 
you. . As for turning me out, I possess a revolver, and if 
any violence is offered to me I shall look upon you as the 
instigator, and give you its contents. You will have the 
‘ first chance/ as the lawyer said to the mortgagee.” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


295 


As the other stood silent for a moment, and menacing, 
as a volcano before its outbreak, Agnes was seen to hurry 
by, crying out, “ Mr. Roscoe, Mr. Roscoe ! ” 

He threw open the door at once — not sorry, perhaps, to 
have his interview cut short. “I am here ; what is the 
matter ? ” 

“ I am afraid Grace is very ill,” she answered excitedly. 
“ Philippa and I can do nothing with her.” 

Walter came forward to the door. The flush of anger 
had passed from his face, which now only showed anxiety 
and alarm. 

For the moment Agnes forgot his changed relations with 
her sister, and with womanly sympathy observed : 

“ Yes, indeed, she is very ill, Walter. The doctor 
should be sent for at once, Mr. Roscoe.” 

“ To be sure. I will order Saltfish to be saddled at 
once ; she will do the five miles in twenty minutes. Per- 
haps Mr. Sinclair himself would like to go.” 

“ By all means,” Walter was about to say, but a glance 
at the other’s Mephistophelian face prevented it ; he re- 
membered too Richard’s last injunction, li Budge for 
nobody, and least of all for Edward,” and was not this 
Edward’s advice ? 

“ No, no ! ” put in Agnes quickly. The mare is queer- 
tempered and must have one she knows for her rider. Tell 
Charles to go.” 

Mr. Roscoe turned away at once to obey her. 

Having received no instructions from her domestic 
adviser as to giving him his congt , Agnes would, as Walter 
sagely judged, be open to reason. 

“ With sickness in a house, Miss Agnes,” he said softly, 
“ it is generally advisable for the ‘ stranger within its 
gates ’ to depart. But being at the cottage here, it is 
impossible that I should be in anybody's way. Under the 
circumstances, therefore, I must ask your leave to remain 
where I am till I am assured of dear Grace’s safety.” 

Perhaps Walter’s youth and good looks pleaded for him 
though she had a suspicion that his presence would be 
unwelcome to Mr. Roscoe, or perhaps Grace’s illness 
touched her woman’s heart. She hesitated, and looked 
round as if for advice, but Mr. Edward was in the stable 
yard and out of reach, and in the end nature had her 
way. 


296 


THE BURNT MILLION 


“ Your request does not appear to me unreasonable, Mr. 
Sinclair,” she replied — then added more doubtfully, u So 
far as I am concerned, of course, you are very welcome to 
my hospitality.” 

“ Then no one else has a right to deny it to me,” said 
Walter quickly. 

This was imprudent, because it suggested the very ob- 
stacle Agnes had in her mind. 

“That is so,” she answered; “ still, circumstances may 
arise — - — What is it, Mr. Richard?” 

Richard Roscoe was approaching from the Hall, evident- 
ly in a state of great excitement. “What is it?” he 
echoed vehemently. “ Merely that you are, amongst you, 
trying to send to heaven before her time the sweetest soul 
that ever dwelt in human form. Philippa tells me that 
Grace is in a high fever, and does not recognize you as her 
sisters — not, Heaven knows, that that is any proof of 
madness ! ” 

“You must be mad yourself to say so,” exclaimed Agnes 
with indignation. “ I shall certainly acquaint your bro- 
ther with the language you have thought fit to use to me.” 

“ He may murder me if he likes, but he shall not 
murder Grace,” cried Richard. “ I know the temptation 
is very great to all of you. You want to divide by two 
instead of by three.” 

“ What, in Heaven’s name, does the man mean ? ” asked 
Agnes, addressing herself to Walter. 

“ He doesn’t know,” continued Richard scornfully ; 
“ but my cunning brother knows, and I think you know'. 
You will tell him what I say, and get the house cleared of 
me as well as of Sinclair. Then you will have Grace all to 
yourselves to do as you please with, and there will be 
murder done.” 

“ If there is enough sanity in this man to make it worth 
while to note his words at all,” said Agnes with dignity, “ I 
call upon you, Mr. Sinclair, to tell him what I have just 
said to you : that you are free to stay here as long as 
you please.” 

“That is so, is it? ” said Richard, as Walter bowed in 
confirmation ; “ then here we remain together to keep watch 
and ward over the innocent, and to take vengeance, if they 
work their wicked will upon her, against the guilty.” 

“ There is no one, Richard, who means any harm to dear 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


297 


Grace, I am sure/’ said Walter soothingly. “ The doctor 
has been sent for, and let us hope his report may be more 
favorable than you imagine.” 

“You don’t know Indians as I know them,” observed 
Richard laconically, and with that he entered the cottage 
and retired to his own room. 

“ Permit me, Miss Agnes,” said Walter gently, “ to 
express my sorrow that I should have been compelled, in 
your presence, to listen to such wild and wandering words. 
If I might venture to advise you I would say, ‘ Let them 
be forgotten.’ It is clear that poor Mr. Richard is not 
himself, though I cannot imagine what has caused him to 
entertain the monstrous idea to which he has given expres- 
sion.” 

“ Nor I,” said Agnes coldly ; her anger had not left her 
but was rather subsiding. The charge Richard had made 
against her was most unjust, but it was not absolutely 
groundless, for that division by two instead of three was a 
sum Mr. Roscoe had often spoken of to her. Nor was the 
cause of Richard’s excitement, since she knew of his secret 
love for Grace, so inconceivable to her as she pretended. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

DIFFICULTIES. 

That nothing happens for certain except the unexpected 
is a dogma that all of us have to subscribe to. It is proved 
in small matters as well as in large ones, alike in the case 
of those who have dramatic experiences or who lead 
homely and uneventful lives. The inmates of Halswater 
Hall were ho exception to this rule. After the painful 
scenes and violent quarrels that had lately taken place 
among them, it would have hardly seemed possible that a 
week, far less a month, hence would have found them all 
living together under the same roof, and, outwardly at 
least, in the same fashion as before. Yet so it was. The 
result was brought about by the dangerous illness of Grace 
Tremenhere. When, after her interview with Mr. Roscoe, 
her sisters, alarmed by her absence from the family circle, 
went to her room, they found her, as has been said, in sad 


298 


THE BURNT MILLION 


case, and when the doctor arrived he gave a most serious 
report of her. 

“Your sister,” he said, “ is suffering from the effect of 
some severe shock to her system. I do not wish to be 
intrusive, but it is absolutely necessary for the proper 
treatment of her case that I should know what has hap- 
pened.” 

Dr. Gardner (as he was always called, though he was 
only a general practitioner (was by no means of the ordi- 
nary type of country doctor. He had an independence of 
his own, and practiced medicine because he liked it. He 
was highly esteemed in the county, and, what is very rare 
with men of his profession, was on the bench of magistrates. 
It is probable that Mr. Roscoe would not have sent for 
him if the services of a more pliant practitioner could have 
been procured on equally short notice, but there was no 
time to pick and choose. Moreover, it was not Mr. Roscoe, 
but the two ladies to whom he was addressing himself. 
His countenance, a fine florid one, looked so grave behind 
his moon-shaped spectacles, that they did not venture to 
deny the conclusion to which his professional observation 
had led him. Philippa indeed was so frightened that if 
she had been alone she would probably have given him 
every detail ; but when the two sisters were together the 
elder was always the speaker. 

“ The engagement between my sister and Mr. Sinclair, 
of which you have doubtless heard,” said Agnes, “has been 
suddenly broken off.” 

“Oh! that’s it, is it?” said the doctor. “Um ! ha! 
And not, I suppose, by the young lady’s own desire ? ” 

“ Yes ; the disruption is her own act entirely. It is in 
no respect a family arrangement, if you mean that,” was 
the brusque reply. 

“ Nay, I meant nothing of the kind, madam, but only to 
get at the facts,” returned the doctor drily. “ I may take 
it, I suppose, that her determination, however necessary 
and unrepented of, has given her pain ? ” 

“ No doubt,” exclaimed Philippa, glancing with tearful 
eyes towards the bed, where Grace was lying with flushed 
cheeks and wandering speech, “ that is what has done the 
mischief.” 

“ To minister to a mind diseased is beyond my skill, 
Miss Philippa,” observed the doctor gently, “ but we must 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


299 


do what we can.” He wrote out certain prescriptions, and 
then said, “ I will send Miss Grace a good nurse.” 

“ My sister and I are surely the proper persons to attend 
upon her,” observed Agnes. 

“ No. Relations are too sympathetic. In a case like 
this it is most important that there should be nothing to 
excite the patient. She will be here to-night. I will pay 
an early visit to-morrow morning.” 

There was only one way, it was said in Westmoreland, 
of evading Dr. Gardner’s prescriptions — by dismissal, and 
Miss Agnes was not prepared to go to that length. She 
noticed, however, with great displeasure that for the future 
he preferred to address himself, when giving orders about 
his patient, to Philippa instead of herself ; and though she 
had had no idea in her mind other than a kind one in 
preferring to nurse Grace with her own hands, the doctor’s 
refusal of her request made Richard’s wild accusations 
especially hateful to her. 

“ That woman’s as hard as nails,” was the doctor’s reflec- 
tion as he rode away. “ My objecting to her tending the 
poor girl because she was too sympathetic was a good 
one,” by which, as he rolled his head and winked his eye 
in evident enjoyment of his own humor, it is reasonable to 
suppose that he meant “a good joke.” 

As he mounted his horse at the Hall door, Mr. Roscoe 
had a few words with him in his self-assumed character of 
head of the house. The doctor spoke with much greater 
plainness to him respecting his patient than he had done 
with the ladies. “ The case is a very serious one, sir, in 
my opinion, and not the less that its origin is an affair of 
the heart.” 

So far was the idea from Mr. Roscoe’s mind that the 
two sisters could have been so imprudent as to acquaint 
the doctor with family affairs, that he actually imagined 
him to refer to Grace’s having heart disease. “ I have never 
heard that she was so affected,” he replied. 

The observation, though so heartless, by no means im- 
pressed the doctor with his simplicity ; he only leapt to 
the right conclusion at once. “ This gentleman,” he said to 
himself, “ takes it for granted that I have been told nothing, 
and has no wish to enlighten me.” 

Mr. Roscoe instantly perceived his mistake, and began 
speaking of Grace’s change of views with great freedom. 


3 °° 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


“ It is a resolution she has come to from the arguments 
of her trustee and guardian,” he said ; “ none of us have 
had anything to do with it. Her conclusion, however, is 
in my opinion a just one ; but of course the sentiment 
remains. Under such circumstances (and since her in- 
tention is unalterable), I conclude it would be well, to 
avoid any risk of excitement, that the late object of her 
affections should leave the house as soon as possible ? ” 

His tone was as indifferent as he could make it, though 
the having the doctor's opinion on such a matter upon his 
side struck him as of great importance. 

“ It is impossible for me, Mr. Roscoe/’ answered the 
doctor gravely, “to say either ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to that 
question at present. It is only too likely that it may make 
no difference to the poor girl whether the young man goes 
or stays ; she is on the brink of brain fever. But should 
she survive it, it would in my opinion be the wiser course 
to keep Mr. Sinclair — and from what I gather from her 
sisters I conclude he has no wish to go — within reach. His 
presence may be of the greatest service ; and if the worst 
comes to the worst, it may be a comfort to her to wish 
him farewell.” 

“ With brain fever ? ” inquired Mr. Roscoe cynically, his 
disappointment at the other's reply getting the better of 
his usual self-restraint. 

“ I am supposing that she comes to herself again,” an- 
swered the doctor harshly, for he too had a temper of his 
own ; “if not, I presume Miss Tremenhere will not grudge 
the hospitality she has thrown away upon him. Good 
afternoon, sir,” and with a curt nod he put spurs to his 
cob and rode away. 

“ An impudent apothecary ! ” was Mr. Roscoe’s com- 
ment as he turned to enter the house ; but, however he 
may have despised the man, he felt that a spoke had been 
put into the wheel of his plans, which, for a time at least, 
would interfere with its working. Even in his anger, how- 
ever, he clearly perceived the source of his mischance. 
“ This all comes of the senseless frankness with which that 
old busybody's questions have been answered upstairs,” 
he muttered to himself. “ Agnes I can trust not to lose 
her head, but Philippa, where sentiment is concerned, is 
always a fool.” He did not feel any especial resentment 
towards Walter, as a less practical schemer would have 


THE BURNT MILLION 


301 


done, but, since it was now probable that the young fellow 
would stay on, resolved to treat him with civility. And 
thus it happened that things went on at the Hall with 
tolerable smoothness, notwithstanding late events. There 
was a difference of course, however, in the manner of their 
going. In spite of their dread of the sick room, Agnes and 
Philippa were a good deal, by turns, in their sister’s room, 
and scarcely ever appeared together in public, even at 
meals. These were always melancholy affairs ; for many 
days the Angel of Death hovered over the household and 
laid its finger on every lip. The doctor, indeed (none of 
your despairing ones), could at one time only say, “ I do 
not yet give up all hope.” It may be imagined, therefore, 
how Walter’s spirits sank to zero, and the gloom darkened 
on Richard Roscoe’s brow ; they found a melancholy con- 
solation in one another’s company, but seldom inter- 
changed a word. Walter knew that he had Richard’s sym- 
pathy, but never guessed his sufferings — so blind is love to 
others as well as to its object — that he endured upon his 
own account. Agnes was genuinely grieved, and Philippa 
passionately so ; her soul was weary with remorse as well 
as pity. Mr. Roscoe alone was resigned to the obstruction 
that interfered with his plans, and looked confidently to 
nature to remove it. He had no ill-will to Grace, he con- 
fessed to himself, but it would be a great relief to him if 
she went to heaven. Dis aliter visum , or, as he expressed 
it, “ this business turned out as badly as every other infer- 
nal thing that he had put his hand to.” Grace got better ; 
it was not the worst thing that could have happened to 
him, but it complicated matters that were already in a very 
serious tangle. The rejoicings of the household jarred upon 
him in a manner that, looking at himself from the outside 
as it was his habit to do, almost alarmed him. 

Disappointment and delay he had hitherto borne with 
wonderful equanimity, considering the dangers they 
brought with them, but he felt that he was now losing his 
patience and his temper. As there is nothing so successful 
as success, so he was well aware there is nothing that pre- 
cipitates calamity like desperation, and yet he was growing 
desperate. He knew it and fought against it, but, though 
slowly, despair was gaining the upper hand of him. 
Perils environed him on every side of which no one knew, 
or knew all, except himself. As Josh had foreseen, and 


3°2 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


even taxed him with that folly, Edward Roscoe was a 
gambler to the core ; he could perceive the rashness of it 
in others, with whom it took other directions, and he had 
often profited by it. He was not even blind to it in his 
own case, but his overpowering egotism and confidence in 
his own sagacity had led him into enormous speculations, 
which had turned out ill, and involved him in liabilities 
which he had no means of meeting, except by driblets and 
fair words. He was furious, not so much with his ill luck, 
as with the failure of his own forecasts. He had been 
taken in by inferior scoundrels. If he had had any, one 
might almost have said that his self-respect was wounded. 
What helped to drive him to despair was the atmosphere 
of hate — his own hate, and of his own making — with which 
he was surrounded. He had never cared for anyone but 
himself, but that very solicitude had hitherto prevented him 
from indulging in animosities which are always disadvan- 
tageous ; he had had, at the worst, only a cold contempt 
for those who stood in his way or thwarted his schemes. 
But now he began to hate them. Even his brother, though 
Agnes had never revealed his conduct to her, had become 
an object of suspicion to him. He resented his familiarity 
with Walter, and felt that he was not to be depended upon 
for carrying out his scheme with respect to Grace. If the 
girl had died this would not have mattered, but she was 
getting better. If she got well, and was reconciled, in spite 
of all that had come and gone, with Walter, it would not 
matter ; but he was none the less angry with Richard. He 
now repented that he had made a confident of either of the 
sisters with respect to the document that he had inter- 
cepted ; women were not fit to be trusted with secrets, 
though at the time it had seemed to him the safest course 
to take. It was not likely that they would reveal it, since 
it would be the destruction of their own expectations. If 
Grace should ever marry Walter she should never know 
but that she did so otherwise than to her own detriment ; 
he would be always Sinclair to her and never Vernon ; 
though Roscoe now wished that he had kept that matter 
to himself. But he hated Sinclair because there lay in him 
— though he knew it not and should never know it — the 
potentiality of seizing the whole Tremenhere estate for him- 
self and his offspring. 

Philippa, indeed, Mr. Roscoe could hardly be said to 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


303 


hate ; but he was exasperated with her for her weakness 
about the young people, which had enlisted the doctor on 
their side, and also for a certain obstinacy which she still 
occasionally exhibited in opposing his wishes. The person 
he hated most of all was the lady whose hospitality he was 
enjoying, and who had done him a hundred good offices, 
Agnes Tremenhere. It is said that the very wickedest of 
us have a tender spot in our hard hearts for those who 
love us, that even a Sykes has a weakness for his Nancy. 
But this is not only not the case, but in some instances 
their very liking for us aggravates our dislike for them. 
Perhaps if Agnes had always been subservient to him he 
would have had the same contemptuous tolerance for her 
as he had for Philippa, but her occasional fits of fondness 
found no favor with him ; while her opposition, which was 
much more frequent and resolute than that of her sister, 
now inspired him with a feeling that was little short of fury. 
Mr. Edward Roscoe felt, in short, that he was becoming 
dangerous ; a thing which would not have troubled him 
much had he not been aware that such a frame of mind 
was likely to be hurtful not only to others but to himself. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

“Edward’s queen.” 

Grace Tremenhere had survived the crisis of what had 
been a most dangerous illness, and was on the road to 
recovery ; she had returned to consciousness, but yet could 
hardly have been said to have “ come to herself.” Her 
condition resembled that of some would-be suicide who, 
having been rescued from the fate she has sought, says to 
herself, “ Am I alive, or am I dead ? ” and then comes sud- 
denly to the sad knowledge that it is the present — and the 
past — that she is confronting, and not the future. 

But the Grace Tremenhere whom we knew she was no 
longer. Her beautiful hair is shorn, her eyes are caverns, 
her cheeks are shrunk and pale ; but all that is nothing 
compared with the hopeless void within. The conscious- 
ness of the full extent of her misery has come back to her. 


304 


THE BURNT MILLION 


When she awoke first with a sane mind, it so happened 
that only the nurse and the doctor were in the room. 

“ Is he here still ? ” she inquired feebly. 

“ Yes, my dear, he has not gone yet,” said the nurse 
consolingly. “ Miss Grace is asking for you, sir.” 

The doctor took her place by the bedside. He knew 
that he was not in the girl’s thoughts at all, but that did 
not wound his amour propre. His weather-beaten face 
was full of the keenest sympathy, yet cheery too ; of all 
his medicines Dr. Gardner was, his patients said, the most 
wholesome tonic. 

“ Yes, my dear, he is still here,” he said. 

“ Then he does not know,” she moaned, and closed her 
eyes. 

The doctor’s position was an embarrassing one. He 
was not in his patient’s confidence, nor, indeed, after that 
first visit of his, had he been in that of her sisters’. Mr. 
Roscoe was a like a book clasped and locked to him, or, 
as he himself expressed it, like a railway company of 
whose time-table Bradshaw scornfully remarks, “No in- 
formation.” 

With Walter Sinclair, however, the doctor had had some 
talk, and was thoroughly acquainted with that young 
gentleman’s sentiments, as well as with his views of the 
situation. 

“It doesn’t much signify, my dear, what he knows, or 
what he does not know,” answered the doctor drily ; “ he 
cares for nothing except to hear about you. If he has 
any regard for me, it is as for one of his old Indian friends, 
and Mr. Richard’s, because I am the ‘ Medicine Man,* 
and in attendance upon you. Every morning it is ‘ How 
is Grace ? ’ and never ‘ How do you do ? ’” 

Her eyes were lit up for a moment with an intense 
delight, which slowly died away as she replied with a 
sigh: 

“ I can’t see him — I daren't see him.” 

“ Of course not, my dear. The thing is not to be dreamt 
of at present — or perhaps, as you were about to say, even 
at all. Still he will remain here till you are well and strong. 
Now tell me, is there anything you can think of that will 
give you pleasure ? ” 

“ Nothing, nothing /” she moaned despairingly. 

“ A friend of yours has been writing almost every day 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


305 


to me, one who loves you very much in a fatherly sort of 
way ; when you get a little stronger, don’t you think you 
would like to see him ? ” 

“ Yes. I should like to see Mr. Allerton very much.” 

Dr. Gardner nodded, and put no more questions. He 
was more than satisfied with the state of his patient. He 
had the reputation of leaving those he attended upon too 
soon upon the road to recovery, not so much because he 
shrank from the least imputation of making the most of 
them as from his horror of humbug ; but Grace Tremen- 
here’s case was an exceptional one in his eyes. He knew 
that he should soon see her convalescent in its ordinary 
sense, but he wanted to see her cured, which would, he 
felt, be a very different thing. So interested had he been 
in the matter that he had taken the unusual step of com- 
municating with Mr. Allerton, by whom his good intentions 
had been thoroughly appreciated. It is possible for two 
honest men to understand one another, even upon paper ; 
and it would have amazed the council of the Law Associa- 
tion to know how many letters — and those long ones — one 
of its most eminent members had written without charging 
his correspondent sixpence for them. He had readily 
promised that in case of Grace’s recovery he would come 
down to Halswater and see her, though he detested the 
country in winter, and long journeys — unless at so much 
per foot — at all times. 

Grace was not, however, of course, in a condition to 
bear such an interview, and in the meanwhile Dr. Gardner 
discouraged the presence of her sisters about his patient 
as much as possible. He saw that she shrank from them, 
though he could not guess the cause ; which was no slur 
on his sagacity, for she could hardly have explained it 
herself. What troubled her almost as much as her estrange- 
ment from her lover was the new and terrible light which 
Mr. Roscoe had thrown upon her father’s character ; and 
though she had accepted it to a certain extent, she was, 
strangely enough, more apprehensive now than she had 
been before of hearing anything from their lips to his dis- 
advantage. She need not have been so, for they had both 
something else to think about much more pressing than 
their father’s memory, but from Mr. Allerton she felt she 
would get the truth, without the alloy of disappointment 
or resentment. She had little hope but that Mr. Roscoe’s 

20 


3°6 


THE BURNT MILLION 


account of the manner in which Walter’s father had been 
tricked and ruined was correct; the more her mind dwelt 
upon it — and it shared her mind with that other wretched- 
ness which was its consequence — the more she felt that he 
could not have invented a story so capable of refutation, 
but still he might have exaggerated it for his own purposes. 
If it was true, in its disgraceful entirety, would Walter be 
still staying on under the same roof with her? She was 
obliged, alas ! to answer for him — because she knew he 
loved her so — that that might be the case. For her sake 
he would forgive all, perhaps, and be content to wed with 
shame, for it was with her father’s shame that she identified 
herself ; and it rested with her to prevent the sacrifice. 

To the mind, not only of the man of the world, but of 
any person of average common sense who has over-lived 
those social superstitions, which are to the full as mon- 
strous as our spiritual ones, this sensitiveness of feeling 
may seem ridiculous. If one has done nothing wrong one- 
self, how can one be smirched by another’s wrong? But 
even otherwise honest and good men are found to be so 
cruel and unjust as to think ill of a person because of his 
illegitimacy, and Grace was no more illogical than they — 
indeed, had her case been another’s she would have taken 
a just view of it, but to some sensitive and delicate natures 
injustice loses its wrong when they are themselves its vic- 
tims. 

In those days of growing convalescence there was at 
least one comfort to Grace, that Mr. Roscoe did not come 
near her. She dreaded beyond everything to see the man 
that had destroyed the edifice both of her faith and of her 
love, and she wondered at her immunity from this infliction. 
Agnes wondered also ; it seemed so strange that Edward, 
who always did exactly what was right, should not have 
seized the first opportunity to congratulate the girl upon 
her recovery, but she did not make any observation to him 
on the matter ; the relations between them had become 
strained on account of her refusal to assist him with a loan 
of larger amount than usual. She was not fond of lending 
her money even to him, and perhaps she reflected that his 
finding himself short of it would hasten his movements in 
the direction which she still wished him to take as much 
as ever. She was tired of waiting for this laggard lover, 
and at the same time resented his making use of her pro- 


THE B l r RNT MIL L I OH. 


3°7 

perty without having established the right to do so. More 
over, his application had been couched in much less loving 
and seductive tones than he had hitherto given himself the 
trouble to use. He was getting impatient and reckless. 
Philippa, on the other hand, was not surprised that he was 
loth to intrude himself upon the presence of one whom his 
revelations had made so miserable ; but that was not in fact 
the cause of Mr. Roscoe’s failure in what Agnes termed “ a 
natural attention.” His position had become so perilous, 
his temper was too severely tried to admit of his conform- 
ing even to the most ordinary conventions. If either sister 
had remonstrated with him for his neglect of their invalid, 
he would probably have said that he did not care one 
farthing whether she was dead or alive. 

Neither of them did so, though for very different 
reasons, and what affected Agnes much more than his 
brutal indifference to Grace was his growing familiarity 
with Philippa. This had become very marked ; for though 
his behavior towards her was in no respect more tender 
than it had been, he was constantly in her company and 
alone. They walked together in the garden, and in 
particular on the cliff terrace above the lake, at the end of 
which a tower, or “ Folly,” as it was called by the neigh- 
bors, had been erected. It was scarcely used even in 
warm weather, though it had been designed as a summer- 
house, and it was strange indeed that it should have 
attractions for anybody at the present time when the moun- 
tains were covered with snow and the waters sealed by 
frost. No one but a woman who has felt jealousy could 
understand the rage that filled the heart of Agnes Tre- 
menhere when she first saw her sister and Edward Roscoe 
leave the garden and climb the steps that led to the cliff 
terrace together. It was not love that took them there, 
but only the desire of speaking with his companion — on a 
very different subject — without fear of interruption ; but 
Agnes thought it was love, or rather the pretence of it, 
which was almost as bad. And Philippa knew that she 
thought it, and was not displeased. She had often made 
her sister jealous, but never with such apparently good 
reason, for Edward’s caution had hitherto restrained her ; 
but now he did not seem to care for prudence. Philippa 
now took her revenge in feminine fashion for many a snub 
and slight she had received at her sister’s hands. 


THE BURNT MILLION 


308 

One afternoon Agnes was in the sick room paying a more 
perfunctory visit to “ her dear Grace ” even than usual ; 
there was no longer any cause for anxiety on the patient’s 
account, and her thoughts were just now dwelling upon 
other things — the fact that Roscoe and Philippa were 
walking together in the garden below for one thing. She 
was not even talking with Grace, upon whom at the 
moment the nurse was attending, but idly engaged herself 
in turning over the leaves of a school history she had taken 
down from its shelf. It had been one of Grace’s lesson- 
books, not so long ago, when Philippa had been her 
governess, and was divided into portions with a note here 
and there in Philippa’s hand. On some occasion when 
she had taken up that book, it is probable that her mind, 
like that of Agnes at the present moment, was astray from 
the subject before her, and had dwelt on other things. 
One historic passage had the phrase “ Philippa, Edward’s 
queen” in it, and the blue pencil in some wandering 
moment had underscored the words. The writer had 
doubtless merely wished to see “how it looked,” with the 
intention of rubbing it out again, but she had forgotten to 
do so, and there it stood, “ Philippa, Edward’s queen,” in 
italics. The writing on the wall of Belshazzar’s palace 
could scarcely have filled those who saw it with deeper 
emotion than that which the sight of that blue line evoked 
in their reader, but the meaning in her case had nothing 
of mystery in it ; it was its very plainness that drove the 
color from her cheek and turned her heart to stone. She 
wondered, was it that Philippa had dared to indulge in a 
day-dream such as this ? She tore out the leaf and placed 
it in her bosom — a proof indeed of the treachery she had 
long suspected. As she did so, her eyes chanced to glance 
at the window, and through it perceived her sister and her 
companion ascending the winding steps that led to the 
terrace. With a wild cry which startled Grace in her 
pillowed chair she rushed from the room. 


THE £ URN T MILLION. 


jog 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

SHE IS MY WIFE. 

The shades of early evening were already falling, and the 
day had been bitterly cold, but Agnes Tremenhere delayed 
only long enough to throw on her bonnet and shawl before 
taking her way to the terrace. There was a fire in her 
blood that prevented her from feeling the fog that was 
rising from the mere, or the wintry air upon the hill-top. 
We cannot hold a fire in our hand by thinking of the frosty 
Caucasus, but passion is stronger than imagination, and can 
for a time ignore all physical inconveniences ; she trembled 
in every limb, but it was not with cold. As she hurried 
up the winding steps that led to the cliff-top she had no 
definite purpose in view, she had not thought of what to 
say or what to do ; a blind instinct of rage and hate 
impelled her to seek out the treacherous pair, and tax one 
of them at least with her perfidy. The proof of it, that lay 
in her bosom and seemed to burn it, was slight indeed ; 
but coming as it did upon the top of a hundred corrobor- 
ating circumstances, and, above all, at a moment when her 
jealousy was at its height, it brought conviction with it. 
Philippa, “ Edward’s queen.” She tried to thi k of the 
shameless woman only, and not of her compan. n ; she 
could not bear to picture him as yielding to tem x tation. 
It was impossible that for all these years he could have 
paid court to her, given her, tacitly but unmistakably, to 
understand that his life was bound up in hers, and of late 
that nothing but mere pecuniary details prevented their 
becoming one in the eyes of all as they had long been in 
their inmost hearts, and yet have been deceiving her. 
These are things common enough with lovers, but of which 
no woman believes her lover capable. Her rival in his 
affection is, on the other hand, capable of anything. She 
will tell Philippa what she thinks of her, and in Edward’s 
presence, so that hereafter he shall have no excuse for 
being deceived. 


3i° 


THE BURNT MILLION 


Those she is in search of are not on the terrace, but in 
the “ Folly,” a roomy and solid structure, with a stone 
chamber below, intended to be used as a kitchen for the 
accommodation of picnic parties, and above, a well-lighted 
apartment commanding an extensive view. The windows 
are of particolored glass, through which the landscape is 
supposed to be seen under the aspects of the four seasons. 
Unlike the seasons of the soul, wherein it is more difficult 
to recall our hours of adversity when we are happy than to 
picture our happiness when we are miserable, it is an easier 
task to portray winter in summer than summer in winter. 
There is no pane, however brilliantly hued, that can now 
bring back the hour “ of splendor in the grass, of glory in 
the flower.” At this time of year, even at noonday, the 
room with its spare summer furniture looks bare and 
melancholy, in unison with the fog and frost without. 
Its tenants, too, are wretched-looking; they are standing 
by one of the windows, and fix their gaze upon it, not 
because the wintry scene has any attraction for them, but 
because each prefers it to looking into the other’s face. 
They have not exactly quarreled, but they have disagreed, 
and are very dissatisfied, though not in the same degree, 
with one another. It is not without difficulty that Roscoe 
can conceal his exasperation against his companion for her 
obstinacy in refusing his request fora sum of money which 
he has told her is necessary for the re-establishment of his 
fortunes. It is necessary, indeed, for him to obtain it, 
though not for that purpose ; it is wanted to stave off the 
impending ruin, but that he dares not tell her. He can 
only use the same arguments he has often used before on 
less pressing occasions. 

“ Five thousand pounds is such a monstrous sum,” she 
pleads. “ To give you money is like pouring water into a 
sieve. Not that I grudge you, Edward. Hush, what’s 
that ? ” 

The door at the top of the short flight of stairs is open, 
but they have no fear of interruption, and do not sink their 
voices as they speak. Mr. Roscoe, indeed, speaks loudly 
and vehemently, his habits of caution, great and small, 
having alike disappeared in these later days. He pays no 
attention to his companion’s interpolated inquiry, but 
answers scornfully : 

“ Grudge me ? I hope not indeed. I think I have some 
claim upon you, Philippa.” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


3 » 

“ You have indeed, dear Edward, every claim, but ” 

“ What claim ? ” cries a terrible voice, at which Philippa 
shrieks aloud, and even Roscoe for a moment trembles. 

Agnes is standing in the doorway, her flaming eyes fixed 
upon her sister, her hand pointing to her companion. 
“ What claim can you have on Edward Roscoe ? Your 
treacherous and lying tongue is silent. Edward, I appeal 
to you." 

There was a moment of painful and embarrassed silence, 
and then the man doggedly replied : “ She is my wife.” 

“ Your wife ! Philippa your wife ? Then if you are 
not a liar you are a thief. You have been drawing her 
money — my money — under false pretences. Five thousand 
pounds ! why that is half her fortune ! Mr. Allerton shall 
know of this. So you are a rogue and a fool in one.” 

“ He is neither the one nor the other,” exclaimed Phi- 
lippa. “ You would never have called him so had he mar- 
ried you instead of me.” 

“ You viper ! ” 

“ You offcast ! ” 

“ Hush, hush ! ” interrupted Roscoe imperiously. “ Go 
home, Philippa, and leave me to deal with her.” 

“ Home ! She will have no home after to-morrow,” cried 
Agnes furiously. “ You have wasted her miserable fortune 
for her before you began to steal what is mine by rights. 
And as for you who have beggared her, you will go to 
gaol.” 

Her injurious words, spoken too in another’s presence, 
would at any time have chafed Edward Roscoe’s spirit 
beyond endurance, but now, in that moment of despair, 
with the consciousness that his long-cherished plans were 
futile and their object known, his face was like that of a 
baffled tiger. 

“ Go home , Philippa,” he repeated, with angry vehe- 
mence. 

“ One would think you were speaking to a dog,” said 
Agnes, with a grating laugh ; “ and like a dog she sneaks 
away. I am glad to see it.” 

Philippa’s exit, indeed, was far from dignified. Notwith- 
standing her last brave words she was frightened at her 
sister, and reassured only by the knowledge that she had 
her husband to back her. Now that he had ordered her 
away, her turkey-like exhibition of wrath was over ; she 


3*2 


THE BURNT MILLION 


felt like a boned turkey. She tottered downstairs, and 
hurried along the bleak terrace, where the evening fog was 
thickening, towards the house. Its lights were already 
lit, and offered for the present at least a welcome. Was it 
really true, as Agnes had told her, that she had no longer 
a right to share its shelter ? It was quite true that the had 
already given to Edward the whole sum, and more, that 
she had inherited under her father’s will, in case she should 
marry in defiance of its restrictions. Had he indeed 
brought himself within the grasp of the law ? That Agnes 
would show them no mercy she was well convinced. And 
did she deserve mercy? Had she not by her own miscon- 
duct hurried her father, though undesignedly, to his death ? 
The thought had often occurred to her, and always with a 
remorseful shock, but never with greater force than now. 
When she reached the house, fortunately unseen by any- 
one, and locked the door of her own room behind her, that 
did not shut out this reflection. She threw herself into 
a chair, and covered her eyes with her hands, but the awful 
scene presented itself to her with greater distinctness than 
ever. It was the night of the conflagration at the theatre. 
Grace had come home in safety, and her father had not 
been aroused. The least shock the doctor had said might 
prove fatal, but the news of her peril had been spared to 
him, and she rejoiced at it, though she was well aware that 
her husband was calculating on the old man’s death. 
Edward and she had been married many months, and were 
only waiting for it to announce the fact. The terms of his 
will were unknown to them. 

It was very late, and Edward was bidding her good-night 
in the corridor. She had been dreadfully upset by the 
events of the evening, and his manner was unusually tender 
and comforting ; he had his arm round her waist, and was 
giving her a farewell kiss, when a door was suddenly 
opened, and her father stood before them in his dressing- 
gown. 

“ What is this ? ” he cried, addressing his confidential 
assistant. “ How dare you ? And you, you shameless 
slut ? ” 

“ Father dear, he is my husband,” pleaded Philippa. 

Those were the last words that passed between them. 
Poor “ Josh ” fell forward on his face and never spoke 
again. They carried him back into his room, but even if 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


3*3 


they had dared to send for help it would have availed him 
nothing. In a few minutes he was a dead man. It was no 
wonder that Mr. Allerton had found Philippa the next day 
agitated by such unexpected emotion. Though she had 
got over the dreadful experience in time, and, as we have 
seen, could even join with Agnes in her denunciations of 
her father’s memory, she never forgot that it was her own 
conduct which had cut short his life. It was a string that 
Mr. Roscoe had often played upon, and it had always 
vibrated to his touch. Sometimes she even said to herself, 
“ I am a murderess.” At others, when it was her husband’s 
role to make light of her part in the matter, she took it less 
to heart ; but just now remorse was gripping her. Oh ! 
why did Edward not come? Why did he leave her alone 
Vvith these awful thoughts ? What could he have to say to 
Agnes that had so long delayed him ? At last there was a 
knock at the door she knew, for they had many such secret 
signs, these two ; and Edward stood before her, pale, wild- 
looking, and breathless. 

“ What did Agnes say ? What do you thipk she will do ? ” 
she inquired anxiously. “ Have you made it up in any 
way ? ” 

“ Yes,” he answered in a hollow voice. “ I think she is 
somewhat pacified.” He sank into a chair, and wiped his 
forehead with his handkerchief. “ Have you any brandy ? 
No, don’t go down for it,” he put in sharply, for she was 
moving quickly towards the door. She pitied his condi- 
tion, which, indeed, was easily to be accounted for. What 
an interview must he have had, poor fellow, and all through 
his own boldness in confessing that he was married to 
her ! Notwithstanding its probable consequences she 
admired him for that. It was a declaration which she had 
long desired to make herself at all hazards. 

“ Agnes keeps a little brandy in her room, but perhaps 
she came home with you, and I dare not meet her.” 

11 She did not come back,” he answered, “ but the brandy 
is no matter. Stay where you are. Let us be together,” and 
he looked round him apprehensively. 

“ Dear Edward, that is what we shall now always be,” 
she replied caressingly. “ Out of this seeming harm, as 
you have often told me, good may, perhaps will, come to us. 
For my part I am sick of our long career of secrecy and 
deception. Money is not everything after all.” 


3*4 


THE BURNT MILLION 


She rather expected an outburst from him against her 
“ sentimental folly,” but there was none. His face showed 
no trace of anger, but wore a listening air, as though he 
was willing to hear her speak on. He even suffered her 
to take his hand and fondle it. 

“ There may be trouble before us, Edward, but it 
cannot be so hard to bear, so far as I am concerned, as 
what I have suffered of late. To live under the same roof 
with Agnes was getting insupportable ; and, even if you 
had not spoken out as you did just now, it could not have 
lasted much longer. However she may behave to us, dear 
Grace will, I know, be our friend, though I fear we have 
not deserved it. Is it not possible, now that things have 
happened as they have done, that we may do her a good 
turn ? " 

What she felt, but did not say, was, “ Now that your own 
plan has miscarried, there can be no reason for making her 
unhappy, and I think you could make matters straight 
between her and Walter if you chose.” She had still great 
faith in his cleverness, though, alas, but little in his sense 
of right. 

He nodded, as she hoped in approval, and she went on 
with rising spirits : 

“Mr. Allerton, though he is no friend of yours, is 
devoted to Grace, and has some influence even with 
Agnes ; I am sure that he will effect some kind of settle- 
ment. It would be quite contrary to his wish that there 
should be any public disruption of the family. We must 
leave Halswater, of course, but it need not be under a 
cloud.” 

“Yes, Allerton is the man,” he murmured, with a sigh 
of relief ; “ he will patch things up for Grace’s sake. 
What's that?” he cried, suddenly springing to his feet. 
“ Why are they tolling the church bell ? ” 

“ My dear Edward, what is the matter with you ? ” she 
exclaimed apprehensively. “ That is not the church bell ; 
it is the gong for afternoon tea.” 

“ To be sure, I had forgotten,” he answered moodily, 
and sat down again. 

“ But what am I to do, Edward ? I daren't go down 
alone to meet her. You must come down with me. Do 
you think it possible that she will break out again before 
Walter and your brother ? ” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


3*5 


No.” 

“ Then I will go down and pour out the tea as usual, 
it will be best to treat her, for the present, even if we go 
to-morrow, as if nothing had happened.” 

He did not answer her, though he still wore that listen- 
ing look. The beating of the gong had ceased, but the 
wind was rising, and howled without like some unhappy 
disembodied spirit. 

“ Did anyone see you return to the house, Philippa ? " 
he suddenly inquired with great earnestness. 

“ No one.” 

“ Nor me. That is so far fortunate. Now listen : we 
two came in together, leaving Agnes on the terrace.” 

“But we didn’t, Edward.” 

“ Hush, you fool ! I say we did. She said she wanted 
a bracing walk, and we left her there, pacing up and down. 
There was no quarrel between us of any kind. Do you 
understand ? ” 

She did not understand, but she began to suspect. She 
stared at him with horrified eyes ; her tongue clove to the 
roof of her mouth. 

You can keep a secret, I know,” he went on in a men- 
acing tone. “ You have kept more than one of your own. 
Keep mine.’ 

“ Great heaven, what have you done ? ” she cried. 

“ Nothing. I left her there — we left her there ; there 
is no parapet — she may have fallen over into the lake for 
all I know. Come down to tea. There is no fear of 
meeting Agnes. Come.” He offered his hand, but she 
drew back, and kept him at arm’s length. Her face ex- 
pressed horror and disgust, nay, even hate. 

“ You don’t feel well enough — a severe headache ? Very 
well, I’ll say so. Do as you please. Only remember we 
two came in together." He was gone. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


3 16 


CHAPTER XLVIL 

ON THE SPOT. 

When Mr. Roscoe went downstairs he foiled both his 
brother and Walter Sinclair in the drawing-room. They 
were neither of them much devoted to the institution of 
five o’clock tea, but they were generally present at it, 
because from one or other of the two sisters they learnt 
news from the sick room. The absence of both Agnes 
and Philippa on the present occasion made them not a 
little anxious. 

“ Have you any news ? ” inquired Walter of Mr. Roscoe. 

“ No,” he answered ; “ she has not come in yet.” The 
instant the words had passed his lips he owned his folly. 
Was he becoming an idiot because of what had happened, 
that he could not get it out of his thoughts for an instant, 
and must imagine everybody else was equally occupied 
with the subject ? “I thought you were referring to the 
absence of Miss Agnes,” he continued carelessly, in reply 
to the others’ look of amazement. “ She is still out of 
doors ; and unfortunately Miss Philippa, I am informed, 
has one of her bad headaches, and will not be here to do 
the honors of the tea-table, so we must help ourselves.” 

As they did not seem inclined to do this, Mr. Roscoe 
poured out the tea for them, and not with his usual neat- 
ness of hand ; he was thinking of something else — listening 
again and spilt it. Walter noticed his preoccupation, and 
guessed its cause — or part of it. 

“ Miss Agnes cannot surely be out of doors in this 
weather ; it is snowing.” 

“ Thank Heaven ! ” exclaimed Mr. Roscoe mechanically. 

We often do thank Heaven for strange things, even for 
things that would appear to have their origin in quite 
another place ; just as we often, alas ! pray to Heaven for 
gifts that are far from celestial in their nature, and which 
can be only secured at the expense of our fellow-creatures. 
Still the strangeness of Mr. Roscoe’s exclamation attracted 
the attention of both his hearers. 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


3 H 


. “ What on earth should you want snow for ? ” inquired 
his brother. 

Richard’s manner, like his own, had undergone some 
change of late. He had never been so subservient to Edward 
as it was his obvious duty (or at all events his interest) to 
be ; but he had now became irritable and antagonistic. 
He took little pains to conceal the opinion he entertained 
of his nature and projects. Edward had come to the 
conclusion it would be necessary to get rid of this relative, 
who had the insolence to ban what he had been sent for 
to bless, and so far from being a help-mate was a hinder- 
mate ; only just now much more serious matters than his 
dismissal were on his mind. 

“ Well, you don’t understand agricultural matters in 
England, my good fellow,” he answered, “ but the country 
wants snow. When that has fallen the frosts will probably 
break up.” 

“ At present, though the snow is falling,” replied Richard 
curtly, “ it is colder than ever.” 

“ It is strange indeed that in such inclement weather 
Miss Agnes should still be out of doors,” observed Walter, 
going to the window and throwing back its gilded shutter. 
“ The lights in the garden are lit, so that she must know 
it’s late ; where has she gone ? ” 

“ Miss Philippa and I left her walking on the terrace,” 
said Mr. Roscoe, speaking with great distinctness. “ I 
told her it was near tea-time, but she said she felt in need 
of exercise, having been in attendance on her sister this 
afternoon, and would take a turn Or two more.” 

“ The steps are very slippery this weather,” observed 
Walter; “ I think some one should go and look after her.” 

There was no reply to this remark, so Walter left the 
room, put on his great coat, and went out. It was already 
dark, and the snow was falling heavily, so that it was not 
easy, even by help of the garden lamps, to find one’s way 
to the winding steps that led to the terrace, though Walter 
had keen eyes, which had been used to heavier snows than 
ever fall in Westmoreland. It was certainly no evening 
for a delicate woman to be abroad in. He thought it pos- 
sible that Miss Agnes might be snow-bound or fog-bound 
in the summer-house, and afraid to venture back along the 
unprotected walk, with its cliff descending down into the 
lake, so for the summer-house he made. Its door was 


THE BURNT MILLION 


318 

standing open, which corroborated his view of the matter, 
and he went upstairs crying “ Miss Agnes, Miss Agnes ! ” 
in order not to alarm her by his sudden entrance. It was 
an unnecessary precaution. The room which had of late 
been the scene of such a stormy interview was empty, and 
in place of those voices of passion there was only the shrill 
cry of the wind, and the soft crush of the snow as it hud- 
dled against the window-pane. “ Miss Agnes, Miss Ag- 
nes ! ” Heaven only knows whether she heard him, but 
there was no response. Walter was now seriously alarmed. 
It was next to impossible that she could have wandered cff 
the terrace on the landward side, because she would have 
had the lights from the Hall to guide her, but it w r as pos- 
sible that in keeping too near them she had fallen over the 
cliff. On his way back he met both the Roscoes with 
servants and lanterns, and they made what search they 
could, but the whirling snow hid everything. Before that 
began to fall the marks of the passage of any heavy body 
down the friable steep would have been discernible, but 
it was not hopeless to detect them. The lake beneath had 
become unapproachable, for while no boat could be put on 
it on account of its icy covering, the ice was not thick 
enough— it seldom was in “ fathomless Halswater ” — to bear 
the weight of a human being. There was nothing for it 
but to wait for the morning, and in the meantime to hope. 
It was just possible that even now Agnes had reached home 
by some other route. 

It was a terrible night for the whole household — sicken- 
ing to those who suffered from suspense, and far worse to 
those who knew. Agnes was not popular, but as they 
thought of her, lost in the whirling snow or drowned in the 
frozen lake, it was not her defects that were dwelt upon. 
She had been a hard woman, but not an unjust one ; pru- 
dent, but not close-fisted ; a good but not over-exacting 
housekeeper. If this is not much to say in her favor, and 
yet all hearts (save one) bled for her for pity’s sake, think 
what suspense must mean to households (there are thou- 
sands of them) whose breadwinner is at sea, “ given up ” at 
Lloyd’s, but not at home, or whose darling is reported 
“ missing ” in the wars ! Heaven shield us, reader, from 
such miseries. A score of times the doors were opened to 
the night, and anxious faces peered into the white gloom : 
a score of times there was heard, or seemed to be heard, 


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3 r 9 


a knocking, a tap, a voice, and they said “ Hush ! ” or 
“ That is she ! ” But she came not. Grace, of course, knew 
nothing of her absence ; she had sorrows of her own enough, 
and was spared that awful watch. But Philippa — Philippa 
was more to be pitied than even Agnes. She knew, though 
she tried to persuade herself that she knew not ; or at all 
events she knew that her husband knew. With that know- 
ledge all love for him — the last relics of it — had fled from 
her bosom ; nay the very fact that it had ever filled it 
increased her loathing for the man. The recollection even 
of her own antagonism to Agnes increased it. In cutting 
short her sister’s life he had deprived herself (oh cruel and 
remorseless wretch ! ) of the hope of reconcilement. 

“ I did not kill her,” Roscoe said to his wife that night, 
“ so help me Heaven ! It was her own fault. As we were 
walking home together she stepped backward and fell over 
the cliff.” 

Philippa answered nothing, but her face said, “ You 
lie.” 

He felt that all was over between them as regarded affec- 
tion — as, indeed, it had long been on his side ; one foe the 
more, one would have thought, could not have made much 
difference. He was now an outcast from his kind, without 
one single tie to them save that of self-interest We know 
what comes of the “ solitary system ” in gaol, at first — how 
the heart of the prisoner is filled with hatred and malice 
against the whole world, which he accuses of having 
devised, or permitted, his punishment. Something of this 
feeling took possession of Edward Roscoe. He would 
revenge himself on humanity — or at all events on all those 
to whom he owed a grudge, or who were obnoxious to 
him — on the first opportunity ; but in the meantime there 
was a more pressing matter to be attended to, his own per- 
sonal safety. Though Philippa was not to be trusted, in 
any gracious sense of the word, he felt he could rely on her, 
whatever might be her suspicions, not to denounce him. 
If she had resolved not to assist him with that statement 
of their having come home together from the terrace, she 
would have said so. He saw that she was no longer afraid 
of him, that hate had cast out fear, but that her silence in 
this connection meant consent. Even if she did witness 
against him, her evidence would be valueless in law, for 
was she not his wife ? But that was a revelation, unless 


3 2 ° 


THE BURNT MILLION \ 


pushed to it very hard, he would certainly not make at 
such a juncture. 

Throughout that night to no inmate of the Hall, save 
the invalid girl, came balmy sleep. Anxiety for Agnes, or 
at least a wild excitement, agitated every bosom. At last 
on the blank scene rose the blank day ; the snow shroud 
was over all things, and the snow still falling with silent 
persistence. There was no trace of the lost woman to be 
seen anywhere, but all the probabilities pointed to one 
direction. The narrow dangerous footway that could just 
be followed in summer, on the margin of the steep side of 
Halswater, was of course invisible, and the only means of 
approach to the lake was by letting down men by ropes 
from the terrace, who at great risk of immersion swept the 
snow away from its ice-bound surface. 

At last was found, not indeed what they sought, for that 
was impossible, but the spot where the ice was very thin, 
and round it signs of fracture. Some heavy body had 
evidently fallen through with great force on the previous 
evening, and though the night’s frost had sealed up the 
hole, and the snow in its turn had covered it, the fate that 
had befallen Agnes Tremenhere was sufficiently revealed. 
Any attempt to rescue the body was for the present use- 
less ; there it lay “ full fathom five,” and deeper yet, and 
must needs lie until the ice melted and the water could be 
dragged. It was no wonder that Edward Roscoe had said 
“ Thank Heaven ! ” when he had heard that the snow was 
falling, for it concealed all evidence, if evidence there was, 
of what had happened on land, while the lake could be 
trusted to keep its own secret. There could be no inquest, 
so he had nothing to fear from Philippa’s weakness ; he 
told his own story, and, as he had calculated, she did not 
gainsay it. 

They had left her sister walking by herself upon the 
terrace, in her usual health and spirits, and there was no 
reason for doubt how, in that dangerous soot, she had come 
by her end. 

To everyone else, however, these circumstances greatly 
added to the horror of the catastrophe. It is no matter to 
ourselves, when our spirit has fled, what becomes of its 
poor human tenement, but to those belonging to us it makes 
a difference. It is far worse to us, 11 the fools of habit,” as 
the poet tells us, that “ hands so often clasped in ours 


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321 


should toss with tangle and shell ” — and that the vast and 
wandering grave of ocean should environ one familiar to us 
— than that he should lie ’neath the churchyard sod. In 
Agnes’ case, so near her home and yet so far from it, the 
circumstances were even more painful, yet not even 
Philippa thought of leaving the Hall ; it seemed to be an 
act of desertion towards one whom she had already wronged 
enough. She would wait there until the last rites could be 
paid to her sister. 

Nor did Edward attempt to dissuade her. One would 
have thought he would have been eager to leave a scene 
which, whatever part he had played in it, must have been 
at least an awful one to look back upon. On the contrary, 
he often sought the terrace alone, though never after night- 
fall. It is possible that with some return of his old caution 
he did so to make assurance sure that there was nothing 
left there of a compromising character, or perhaps there 
was some morbid attraction for him in the place such as is 
said to coerce those who have the guilt of blood upon their 
souls to revisit the scene of their crime. But in my 
opinion it was the former reason. Just as a good man 
will entertain no scruple about having killed some cruel 
wretch in the act of attempting the murder of some innocent 
girl, so it is probable Edward Roscoe experienced no 
remorse in the contemplation of the fate of one who had 
always been as a millstone about his neck, and whose last 
act had been to denounce and threaten him with punish- 
ment. My belief is that after the first few hours of terror 
and excitement, when he was certainly far from being him- 
self (except for its possible consequences), he thought of it 
no more than a chess-player who sweeps a piece from his 
adversary’s board. What had happened, though there 
was doubtless danger in it, was so far of great advantage 
to him. To a certain extent it even strengthened his hands, 
not only by its leaving fewer adversaries to deal with, but 
by increasing that courage of despair which he had of late 
experienced. He felt that his masterful nature would now 
stick at nothing, and drew from it the conclusion that 
nothing — in the way of defeat — could stop him. Indeed, 
he had already reaped some material benefit. Though his 
wife showed the utmost loathing for him when they chanced 
to be alone together, and would even remain stubbornly 
silent when he addressed her upon any subject in gonneQ- 


322 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


tion with her lost sister, he found her unexpectedly sub- 
servient in pecuniary matters. She signet) certain docu- 
ments — the very ones she had hitherto refused to sign — 
which enabled him to tide over his more pressing difficul- 
ties. “ What is money to me now ? ” she said in despairing 
tones. “ Take what you will of it, since you have taken 
all besides ” — a state of mind which, in a wife with a large 
banking account of her own, seemed to him laudable and 
meritorious in the highest degree. 

Mr. Allerton, however, whose visit to Halswater this 
catastrophe to its mistress had naturally precipitated, was 
coming to the Hall at once, a circumstance that was by no 
means so welcome. There was nothing, he knew, to 
discover, of course, but there were persons under that 
roof, Mr. Roscoe knew, who regarded him with unfavor- 
able eyes, and he did not wish their wits to be sharpened 
by contact with those of the family lawyer. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

When Mr. Allerton arrived at Halswater he was pleasur- 
ably disappointed, as our English “ bull ” runs, in not 
being made welcome, as usual, by the de facto master of 
the house. It had hitherto been Mr. Edward Roscoe’s 
custom to receive all guests that visited the Tremenhere 
ladies as if they had been his own, but on the present 
occasion he did not even give himself the trouble to depute 
that office. So it strangely enough happened that Mr. 
Allerton was received by Walter Sinclair — a person who, 
so far from having any authority to welcome him to the 
Hall, had himself, as we know, but a precarious footing 
there. Moreover the last letter in which the lawyer had 
mentioned his name had been by no means a letter of 
recommendation ; it had been that which he had written to 
Grace, remonstrating with her on the encouragement she 
had given to the young man, and pointing out how very 
undesirable from a practical point of view he would be as 
a husband, and Walter knew that he had written it. So 
fair and honest was the young man’s character, however, 
that he felt no spark of resentment against the lawyer on 
that account — he was Grace’s guardian, he reflected, and 


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3 2 3 


simply doing his duty — but only remembered the kind- 
nesses he had personally received at the other’s hands. 

il I am so glad you are come, Mr. Allerton,” he exclaimed 
as they shook hands warmly ; “ things are all going on 
here as in a ship without a rudder.” 

He took him to his room, which was in “ the Cottage,” 
next his own, and the two had a long talk together, but 
without touching on the subject which had placed them in 
antagonism to one another. 

“First, about poor Miss Agnes?” said the lawyer. 
“Tell me frankly, what is your view ? ” 

Walter raised his eyes in some astonishment. 

“ There is nothing to tell but what has been told you. 
Mr. Roscoe and Miss Philippa left her on the terrace. It 
is a dangerous spot except in the daytime for anybody, as 
you will see for yourself. It was evening, and snowing 
heavily ; there is not a doubt that the poor lady fell into 
the lake.” 

“ A ghastly catastrophe, indeed,” observed the other 
gravely. “ And of course Miss Grace knows nothing 
about it? ” 

“ Nothing. It would be madness to tell her. Dr. 
Gardner will give you an account of her condition ; 
he comes here this afternoon instead of the morning on 
purpose to do so. We have every confidence in him.” 

“ Who do you mean by ‘we’? ” 

Walter flushed up to his eyes. “ It was an expression 
I own I had no right to use,” he said apologetically. “ I 
am quite aware that I have no recognized position here, 
but everything, as I have hinted, is topsy-turvy.” 

“ It was always that,” observed the lawyer drily ; “ or 
at least the person who had the least right to be there was 
at the head of affairs. He is so still, I suppose, and more 
than ever.” 

“ In a sort of way, yes ; but, on the other hand, he does 
not take so much upon himself ; he seems to care little 
how things go.” 

“What has happened — as indeed it well may do — 
monopolizes his thoughts, I conclude?” 

The lawyer’s words were indifferent, but not his tone. 
He seemed to be awaiting some reply from his companion 
and with anxiety, though there hardly seemed occasion for 
a reply. 


3 2 4 


THE BURNT MILLION 


“ No doubt ; this terrible event has unhinged us all, and 
brought us into new relations. That is why I used the 
word ‘ we ’ just now, for Miss Philippa takes me a good 
deal into her confidence.” 

“And not Mr. Roscoe?” inquired the lawyer sharply. 

“ I can’t say about that, but she certainly seems to avoid 
his society, which, as you know, she did not use to do. 
There are many changes here,” replied the young fellow. 

“ I suppose so ; that was to be expected. There is one 
change for the better, however, I am glad to find from Dr. 
Gardner’s letters. Have you seen her ? ” 

“ I ? Certainly not, sir. She has forbidden me — that 
is, before she was taken ill, and as I was given to under- 
stand in consequence of some communication from your- 
self, she forbad me to see her.” 

“ Indeed. Who told you that ? ” 

“ She told me herself — that is, in her own handwriting.” 

“ Let me see it.” 

Walter went into his own room and produced the slip of 
paper she had written to him : “Seek,” etc. 

The lawyer examined the manuscript very carefully. 

“ Mr. Roscoe brought you that communication ? ” he 
remarked. 

“Yes. But it is Grace’s handwriting,” replied Walter in 
response to an expression on the other’s face. “ Miss 
Philippa corroborates the fact — so far. Still the affair is 
unintelligible to me, in some respects — though perhaps 
not to you? ” he added with a touch of bitterness. 

To this question the lawyer made no rejoinder; he 
shifted his chair and gazed absently before him, evidently 
in deep thought. 

“ What sort of a person is this Mr. Richard Roscoe ? ” 
he inquired presently. 

“ A very honest fellow, but eccentric. He has had 
troubles — perhaps has them now — which I sometimes 
fear has affected his mind.” 

“ Is he on good terms with his brother ? 

“ There is no open quarrel between them, but there is 
certainly no love lost. He mistrusts Mr. Edward very 
much, I think.” 

“ He must be mad indeed if he didn’t,” was Mr. Aller- 
ton’s cynical reply. “ If that man was an American he 
would be called ‘ the Champion Scoundrel.’ Does he see 
much of Grace? ” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


32 $ 


“ He has never seen her, I understand, since the inter- 
view in which she gave him that writing. So at least Miss 
Philippa tells me.” 

“ Who does see her? ” 

“ Only Miss Philippa, the doctor, and the nurse 

Here is the doctor.” 

Dr. Gardner in his high boots and with his riding whip 
in hand was at the “ Cottage ” door. Walter introduced 
the two men to one another, and left them together. When 
they came out after a protracted talk they had both very 
serious faces. 

“ I will just look to my patient, Mr. Allerton, and if she 
is well enough she shall then set you.” 

The lawyer nodded : a complete understanding seemed 
to have been arrived at by these two men. 

In due course Mr. Allerton was summoned to the sick 
room. Grace was sitting up in her chair, but still too 
weak to rise to welcome him. It was a sad meeting, and 
at first, to his great distress, she gave way to tears. 

“ That won’t hurt her,” said the old doctor with a wise 
brutality. “ She would have been better by now had there 
been more tears.” 

He left the room, taking the nurse with him. 

“ I have been wanting to see you, dear Mr. Allerton, 
these many weeks,” said Grace, placing her thin hand 
on his. “You are the only person in whom I have any 
trust.” 

“ I am sorry to hear you say that, my dear.” 

“ Yes ; you are the only person I now see (except, indeed, 
the good doctor, who cannot help me) in whom I have any 
confidence. Agnes never comes near me; Philippa is 
kind, but strangely altered in other respects. They are 
the only two persons who can answer the question I have 
to put to you, and I would not apply to them in any case. 
Mr. Allerton, tell me truly, what was dear papa ? ” 

The lawyer had come down to Halswater prepared to 
hear strange things, and with stranger things in his own 
mind than he was likely to hear, but this inquiry was 
wholly unlooked for, and his face showed it. For the 
moment he was silent. 

“ Do not deceive me,” she said plaintively ; “ let me 
know the whole truth.” 

“ Your father, my dear girl, as everybody knew except 


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326 

yourself, was a money-lender. It is not a calling that is 
thought highly of, but he was at the head of it ; moreover, 
it does not follow that a money-lender ” 

“ Was he an honest man ? ” she interrupted vehemently. 

“ Yes. For a money-lender, as I have always said, ex- 
ceptionally honest.” 

“ Money is the root of all evil,” observed Grace with a 
sigh and a shudder. 

“ It is so stated in the copy-books, my dear, and no 
doubt there is truth in it. It is bad to beg and bad to 
borrow, and the trade of lending it is not what one calls a 
liberal education ; still there are money-lenders and 
money-lenders, and your father was the best specimen of 
his trade I have ever known.” 

“ Why did he hide it from me ? Why did everybody 
hide it from me ? ” she murmured reproachfully. 

“ Well, for the very reasons I have mentioned. Your 
father was so passionately fond of you ” 

“ His little Fairy,” she interrupted, in a trembling voice. 
“ Heaven knows how I loved him ! ” 

“ And also how he loved you, my dear. He always 
wished you to think the best of him, as we all do. I never 
should have told you I was a lawyer if I could have helped 
it. It was weakness in him to conceal the fact, but it was 
love that made him weak. The same sentiment in a less 
degree actuated your sisters ; they had a grudge against 
your father, and did not spare his memory so far as they 
were themselves concerned, but they never strove to 
disturb your faith in him, and that is to their credit. For 
my part, I cannot imagine how you could have been 
ignorant of his profession.” 

“ I knew he lent his friends money, of course, and not 
for nothing. But I thought he did them good, and not 
harm. I did not know that he was ” — she sank her voice 
to a whisper — “ a usurer.” 

“ Who told you he was a usurer ? But I need not ask. 
There is only one man in the world who could have done 
it.” 

“ But was it true ? ” 

Her pleading eyes looked straight into the lawyer’s face. 
His heart melted within him, but his composure remained 
outwardly firm. 

“ You need not answer,” she said despairingly. “ I see it 
was so ; now tell me this. Did gold so weigh with him 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


3 2 7 


that kith and kin, justice and compassion were nothing 
compared with it ? Was he such a slave to greed that he 
could cheat one of his own blood of all he had, and thrive 
upon his ruin ? ” 

“ No ! A thousand times, no ! ” replied the lawyer con- 
fidently ; “ it is a lie, whoever told you so. In the first 
place he had no kith or kin except yourselves ; in the 
second, in my judgment he was incapable of such conduct.” 

“ Are you sure of this ? ” 

Even while she spoke he remembered that her father had 
mentioned to him when making his will that he had some 
far-away cousin ; but the matter seemed to have no refer- 
ence to the subject on hand, and he yearned to put that 
torn and tender heart at rest. “ I am quite sure,” he 
answered. 

“ In my father’s papers, in which you told me every 
business transaction of his was noted down, was there any 
word of one with my — with Walter Sinclair’s father ? It 
was in connection with some mine in Cornwall.” 

“ Certainly not. The name would certainly have struck 
me had it been otherwise. You may set your mind quite 
at ease, my dear, upon that point.” 

“ Thank heaven ! ” she murmured fervently ; “ you have 
brought me from death to life, dear Mr. Allerton ; ” and 
rising feebly from her chair she kissed him. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

MR. roscoe’s congratulations. 

It is probable that Grace’s guardian had come down to 
Halswater in no very exacting mood towards his ward and 
favorite. The letter he had had from the doctor had no 
doubt gone far to convince him that her complete recovery 
would be dependent upon the course of true love, which 
had been so cruelly interrupted, running for the future 
smoothly ; and though it was both his duty and his desire to 
preserve her fortune for her, he felt that her health and 
happiness were still more important things ; moreover, the 
fact, now patent to him, that Mr. Roscoe had by foul 
means broken the bond between the young couple, no 


328 


THE BURNT MILLION 


doubt inclined him to mend it, and, above all, Giace 
had kissed him. Of course it was foolish of him to allow 
that last little matter to influence his conduct, but as a 
matter of fact it did, and he would have been worse than a 
fool had it been otherwise. The remembrance ot how the 
girl he loved as though she had been his own daughter, 
weak and ill, and the mere shadow of her former sel£ had 
tottered out of her chair to thank him for his good tidings 
with a kiss, compelled him to obey her wishes as though 
they had been a decree of the Court of Chancery. After 
all, he had saved a little money for her in spite of her large 
charities, and she would have the ten thousand pounds 
which Josh had left — though less in love than to make his 
testament secure — to any of his daughters that should go 
counter to the provisions of his will ; and Walter had a 
little money of his own, and a profession to follow. 

Upon the whole, therefore, one may say that Mr. Aller- 
ton, instead of being an opponent of the young people, had 
accepted a retainer (from himself) on the other side. He 
did not grudge Philippa the good luck which would now 
make her for life, and possibly for ever, the inheritress of 
her father’s colossal fortune ; it was better, at all events, 
than if Agnes (because she had been less kind to Grace) 
had been in her place, though if he had known Philippa’s 
secret his views might have altered altogether. To have 
found himself outwitted by Mr. Roscoe and that man the 
master of Josh’s million would have been intolerable to the 
lawyer. In the present relations, however (so far as he 
understood them), between her and him, no such result 
seemed possible ; and he could so far afford to treat his 
enemy with great politeness. What puzzled him was why 
Mr. Roscoe had endeavored to stop Grace’s marriage. So 
long as he kept on good terms with the other two sisters, 
as had until lately seemed to be the case, there was every 
reason why he should have encouraged it. The person 
over whom he exercised so great an influence would have 
been far the richer by it ; and indeed there had been a time 
when he had certainly wished Grace to marry. However, 
it was obvious, whatever his reason, that he did not wish 
it now, and therefore Mr. Allerton could not resist the 
temptation of telling him with his own lips that the young 
couple were in a fair way of being reconciled. 


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329 

“ There has been some unfortunate misunderstanding, 
it seems/’ he said, “ upon the part of Miss Grace, but you 
will be happy to hear that it has now been cleared away.” 

It was in the garden, where, just after he left Grace's 
room, he found Mr. Roscoe walking to and fro, that the 
lawyer made this innocent communication to him. 

Mr. Roscoe gave him such a look as, if looks could 
wither, would have left him a skeleton, but answered indif- 
ferently enough, “That is good news indeed." 

That he did not ask for any explanation of such unex- 
pected tidings was proof positive to the lawyer that he did 
not dare to do so. This he did not need, however, as a 
corroboration of his view of Mr. Edward Roscoe’s charac- 
ter, which had long been formed ; of late days it had taken 
a dark tinge indeed, and if the other could have peeped 
into the lawyer’s mind, he would have been startled at the 
picture of himself he would have found there. 

“ Is Miss Grace sufficiently well to receive visitors ? ” 
inquired Mr. Roscoe presently. 

“ That depends ; she has just seen me” observed Mr. 
Allerton. 

‘ Oh, of course ; you are her guardian and her friend 
— which last indeed," he added hastily, “ we all are. But 
I suppose anything liable to evoke excitement is still for- 
bidden her ? " 

“ The doctor tells me Sinclair may be permitted to see 
her for a few minutes." 

“ Oh ! ” — only a monosyllable, but it seemed to say a 
good deal ; “ things have gone so far on the way of recon- 
cilement as that , have they ? " 

“ She will not, however, be able to see any one else to- 
day, I should say," continued Mr. Allerton significantly. 

He would have forbidden him the sick-room altogether 
if he could have done so with reason. 

“That seems judicious," observed the other coldly. 
“ Perhaps to-morrow she may be strong enough to receive 
my poor congratulations." 

In the meantime Walter had been permitted an interview 
with Grace, which was positively to last but a few minutes. 
Under such circumstances they were sure not to waste it 
in mere explanations which could be entered upon at any 
time if it was worth while; moreover Walter had been 
warned against them by the doctor. The great point was 
that they were in each other’s arms again. 


330 


THE BURNT MILLION 


“ Heaven is very good to me,” murmured Grace in his 
ear. Walter smiled a little deprecatingly, as though he 
would have said, “ So it ought to be, for are you not one 
of its own angels ? ” 

“ I never thought to see you again, Walter, my darling ! 
my darling ! Oh, what have I not suffered ! ” 

“ No matter, sweetheart, it is all over now ; you have 
only to get well.” 

“ I am well,” she answered ; which was not quite true, 
but very pretty. The Beautiful and the True are not 
always the same thing, notwithstanding what the poets 
tell us. 

“ How could you, could you, bid me go away from you ? ” 
he whispered, not reproachfully, but with the air of one who 
asks for information. 

“ You may well ask ; I must have been mad to believe 
them.” 

“ Them ? What was it they said against me ? ” inquired 
Walter. 

“ Nothing. Do you think I should have believed them 
if they had ? ” she answered indignantly. 

“ Of course not,” he said. It sounded like complacency, 
but he had suddenly remembered that this was a forbidden 
subject. “ As soon as you are strong enough you are to 
go south, to the seaside,” he added hastily. 

“ What ! away from you ? ” 

“How could that be possible, darling? Where thou 
goest I will go.” He was about to continue the quotation 
with “ My people shall be thy people,” but felt it far from 
apposite and checked himself — not, however, as it appeared, 
in time. 

“ Do my sisters know that you are with me ? ” she 
asked. 

“ Yes,” he said unhesitatingly ; the subject of Agnes was 
not of course to be discussed, but on the other hand reti- 
cence itself might provoke suspicion. “ Philippa was most 
kind in her congratulations ; I believe she is genuinely 
fond of you.” 

“ It is sad to have to make exceptions,” she answered 
with a sigh. “ I wish to be at peace with all the world. I 
suppose Agnes will come to see me presently.” 

The doctor had entered the room as she was speaking. 

“ Not to-day, Miss Grace,” he observed cheerfully ; 
“ you have had visitors enough. This one, indeed, flattered 


THE BURNT MILLION 


33 1 


himself that you would not wish to see another after him — 
like leaving a pleasant taste in the mouth, which one is 
averse to lose by taking anything afterwards.” 

“ The doctor is professional, even in his metaphors,” 
said Grace with a pleasant smile. 

“ I like to see my patients impudent,” returned the kindly 
old fellow. “ It may, however, be the result of intoxica- 
tion ; I think you have had enough of this stimulant, my 
dear,” he added, looking towards Walter. “ His five 
minutes are up.” 

The young man arose at once. Though he had said so 
little, he felt that there had been no loss of time. He was 
another man already, or rather two beings in one. His 
heart was filled with love and gratitude, and had no room 
for ignoble thoughts. He had even forgiven his enemies 
since all their plans had failed. In the library he found 
the brothers, apparently in far from amicable discourse. In 
reply to their inquiries after Grace, he gave them all parti- 
culars save those which concerned himself. He knew that 
Richard’s sympathy was genuine, and he could not believe 
just then that even Mr. Roscoe could be indifferent to his 
news. Nor did that gentleman seem indifferent ; he was 
quite interested, indeed, in some parts of the narrative, and 
put several questions. 

“ Did she really look as if she had ‘ turned the corner ? ’ 
Was she in good spirits ? Was the nurse always in her 
room? That doctor, who dispensed his own medicines, 
gave her plenty of them, no doubt.” 

Walter stood up by the doctor, of whom Grace had 
spoken very warmly, and thought there had been nothing 
to complain of in that respect. “ She took no medicines 
now,” he said, “ except a strong tonic — strychnine.” 

“ A very dangerous thing,” observed Mr. Roscoe. 

“ It doesn’t lie about,” said Walter, “ but is kept in the 
medicine chest in Miss .Agnes’ room, and administered 
only by the doctor himself. He is a very careful fellow.” 

Mr. Roscoe was glad to hear it, glad to hear such a good 
report of the dear invalid, glad to find (from Mr. Allerton) 
that the cloud that had shadowed the young people’s pros- 
pects of late had given way to sunshine. 

It would have seemed, in short, strange to Walter that 
Mr. Roscoe, in his effusiveness, had not shaken hands with 
him, but that he reflected that his offering to do so would 


332 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


have seemed too much like “ making up,” and it was evi- 
dently the other’s endeavor to show that there was no need 
for that, nor ever had been. The young fellow was will- 
ing enough to find things on this footing. He was in 
Eden, and did not wish to be reminded of the existence of 
the serpent : he, too, wished to be at peace with every- 
body. 

Curiously enough, Richard had manifested less concern 
in what he had to say than Edward, on whom he kept his 
eyes throughout with no very fraternal expression. 

“I am afraid, Richard, you have been having some un- 
pleasantness with your brother ? ” said Walter, when they 
found themselves alone together. 

“ Well, yes,” replied Richard reluctantly, “ we have each 
been telling the other what we thought of him.” 

“ That is bad,” answered Walter, though, in truth, noth- 
ing seemed bad, or at least unendurable, to him at that 
moment. “ It is like two women telling one another that 
they are ugly.” 

“ Well, we didn’t say that,” replied Richard gravely, 
“ but let me tell you one thing : my brother is never so 
ugly as when he smiles, and he has been smiling on you. 
It is a bad sign.” 

“ Come, come, that is a jaundiced view indeed,” remon- 
strated Walter. “ Of course he is not pleased at the failure 
of his plans, though he pretends to be ; but, like a gambler 
who has lost, he has made up his mind to pay up and look 
pleasant. Do not let us be hard upon him, when every- 
thing has turned out well. Oh, Richard, I am so happy.” 

“You deserve to be,” sighed Richard. “You are a 
good fellow. But do not let generosity to a fallen enemy 
carry you too far — to trust him, for instance. The Indian 
is never so dangerous as when he has received a mortal 
wound. I have seen a man kneel down by the side of one 
to give him a cup of water, and get a knife driven into his 
heart for his pains.” 


THE BURNT MILLION, 


333 


CHAPTER L. 

HIS LAST THROW. 

Good news is the best of tonics, and the day after her 
interview with Walter, Grace felt that she had made great 
progress on the road to convalescence. The doctor, who 
had hitherto come twice a day, was not to visit her in the 
afternoon, but in the morning, finding her both able and 
willing to receive visitors, he gave her permission to do so 
after the midday meal. He would have preferred such 
excitement to be postponed still a little longer, but his 
patient was nervously desirous to get both visits over — 
especially that of Mr. Roscoe, who had made tender appli- 
cation to see her. It was the less easy to refuse it since 
Agnes could not come, for a reason that they did not as 
yet dare tell her, but ascribed her absence to indisposition. 
If Grace felt equal to receiving two visitors she could cer- 
tainly see one. In reality, she was neither so strong, nor so 
brave, as she represented herself to be. The last time she 
had seen Mr. Roscoe he had almost driven her into her 
grave with his falsehoods and insinuations ; and though she 
had no fear of their being repeated, and was willing enough 
to let bygones be bygones, she could not forget them ; but 
having once said, “ I will see him,” she had not the courage 
to own herself a coward. 

Philippa’s tone, when she brought his message to her, 
had not been reassuring ; she repeated it like a parrot, yet 
with an air of distress which to Grace was unaccountable. 

“ You must not be astonished,” she said, “ if you see 
some change in Mr. Roscoe. He has had his troubles 
like the rest of us.” 

In the case of any other person Grace would have 
inquired, “ What troubles ? ” Her silence and want of 
sympathy spoke volumes', but awoke no surprise in her 
sister. Her wonder was that no one but herself seemed to 
Jiave any suspicion of Edward Rosqoe in connection with 


334 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


the disappearance of her sister. To her mind his very face 
— for she had spoken less than the truth when she said, 
il You will see some change in him ” — was a self-accusation 
of crime. His hollow eyes illumined by strange fires (like 
natural caverns shown to visitors), his sunken cheeks, his 
listening and distracted air, were to her fancy so many 
witnesses against him ; yet, ghost of his former self as he 
was, she did not pity him, and felt as if she never should. 
In this last conviction she was, however, mistaken. She 
had gone to him at his desire that morning to acquaint him 
with the result of his application to see Grace. 

“ She will see you at half-past two,” she said. “ You must 
not talk to her on any exciting subject. The interview 
must not last beyond five minutes. The nurse will be in 
the next room, and will come in at the expiration of that 
time.” 

And this was said mechanically, as if learned by rote 
and spoken to a stranger ; but she was satisfied with the 
performance of her task. She had at least shown no sign 
of the horror and loathing with which she regarded him. 
And he, too, had seemed satisfied, for indeed he now 
expected little from her. It was something that she could 
command herself, which, when they were alone together, 
was by no means always the case. She would give way to 
remorse, despair, and hysterical sobbings, to stop which 
neither menace nor arguments — blandishments he dared 
not use, she shrank from them as though he were a leper 
— were of any avail. 

“ I will come to you,” he said, “ at the appointed time, 
if you will be my usher.” 

But she saw him before that. 

She had been despatched by the doctor to administer 
Grace’s tonic to her that forenoon, and was on her way to 
Agnes’ room to fetch it, when she met her husband face to 
face at the very door. He was coming out as she was 
going into the room, and they both started back in amaze- 
ment and alarm. It was not a place in which either of 
them was likely to find the other, for it was hateful to 
both of them ; but Philippa, as has been said, had business 
there. 

“ I came for a book,” he said, in dry, hoarse tones, in 
answer to her wondering glance, “ but could not find it.” 
It was strange that he could not also find a less transparent 


THE BURNT MILLION . 


335 


excuse for what he had not been accused of, but Edward 
Roscoe was not himself. Nor, even of late days, had he 
ever looked so unlike himself. His face was livid, his 
eyes were wild and bloodshot. 

“ What is the matter? ” inquired Philippa, terrified for 
the moment by his appearance out of the utter indifference 
to his well-being or otherwise that had taken possession of 
her. 

“ Nothing. You had better ask no questions. All you 
have henceforth to do is to hold your tongue. Forget 
everything else and remember that.” 

The words were spoken like the flick of a whip, and 
there had been a time when they would have silenced her ; 
but her fear of him, strangely enough, was half overcome 
by her fear for him. She was convinced that he was about 
to do something desperate, and, as she thought, to himself. 
This man was after all her husband. 

“ Edward, what are you thinking of? Do not look at 
me like that. It is possible to make matters even worse 
than they are.” 

“ They must be worse before they are better,” he 
answered coldly. “ Leave me alone, and I will leave you 
alone.” She was moving after him as fast as her trembling 
limbs would permit her ; he turned round and faced her 
with a mocking smile. “You had better not ; I am going 
somewhere where you would not like to follow me.” He 
passed though the door that shut off the corridor from the 
narrow staircase and locked it behind him. 

A few minutes afterwards Philippa, with head uncovered, 
was running through the thick falling snow to the “ Cot- 
tage,” crying, “ Richard ! Richard ! ” 

Richard Roscoe met her in the lobby. 

“Your brother has left the house,” she cried in pitiful 
tones. “ For heaven’s sake follow him ; I fear he will do 
himself a mischief.” 

“ I think not,” he answered drily. “ Let me know 
exactly what has happened.” 

She told him what had actually taken place, for, indeed 
she had no wits left to conceal, far less to invent, any- 
thing. il I met him coming out of Agnes’ sitting-room, 
looking like a madman ; he said he was going somewhere 
where I dared not follow him — and he is gone.” 

“ Was that all ? ” inquired the other cynically, when 
Philippa stopped for want of breath. 


33$ 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


“ Alas ! no, it was not all. When I opened the medi- 
cine chest in Agnes’ room to get her tonic as the doctor 
had told me to do — it is strychnine, you know — the bottle 
was gone.” 

“ The strychnine I ” cried Richard with sudden excite- 
ment ; “ what did he want that for? ” 

iC Ah, what indeed ? It could only be for one purpose.” 

“ Which way did he go ? ” inquired Richard hurriedly. 
“ Is he upstairs or down ? ” 

“ He is gone out, I tell you. I saw him, through the 
window, going towards the lake.” 

Richard reached down his wideawake from the peg in 
the lobby. 

“You must not go out like that in this snow,” cried 
Philippa with nervous carefulness ; “ you will catch your 
death of cold. Let me help you with your great coat.” 

“ Are you sure he went out of doors ? ” asked Richard 
as he drew it on. 

“ I am quite sure.” 

“ Well, well, I’ll follow,” said the other. But he was no 
longer in such hot haste. His apprehensions, which had 
seemed so keen, had unaccountably subsided. “ Perhaps 
he is in the summer-house on the terrace.” 

“ Oh, no, I should think not,” she answered faintly. 

“ Why not ? It is the only place under cover. Well, 
I’ll find him. In return, however, promise me this — that 
until I come back again the nurse shall never leave your 
sister’s room.” 

“ She never does leave it.” 

“ She left it yesterday,” he answered bluntly, “ when 
Sinclair was with her.” 

“ Walter is different, you know,” said Philippa, with a 
feeble smile. “ Nobody else would be admitted unless the 
nurse were present. Those were the doctor’s orders.” 

“ Never mind his orders ; I want your promise that it 
shall be so.” His tone was fierce ; his manner for the first 
time reminded her of his brother crossed. 

“ Indeed I will see to that, Mr. Richard,” she answered 
humbly and amazed, “ upon my honor.” 

He nodded, and, pressing his cap over his brows, went 
out into the whirling snow. 

Philippa returned at once to Grace’s room. She had 
resolved to stay there herself till she should have news 


THE BURNT MILLION . 


337 


from Richard. His words had added a vague alarm to 
her fears on Edward’s account, notwithstanding that the 
two were somehow incompatible. Though in perfect 
health, and with wealth, as her husband had assured her 
for her comfort (though it had given her none), beyond the 
dreams of avarice, there was no more miserable woman in 
all the world. How infinitely to be envied was her sister, 
though enervated by sickness, and with no brilliant pros- 
pect before her ! She was about to marry the man of her 
choice ; ignorant of evil schemes and plans, far less of 
crime ; full of hope and trust ; grateful even for ministra- 
tions from a hand that had helped to harm her. 

“ What is the matter, Philippa ? ” for with returning 
health her eye had resumed its keenness for the signs of 
unhappiness in others. 

“ Nothing, dear ; that is, I am a little anxious because Mr. 
Roscoe and his brother are out in this dreadful snow.” 

“ That is surely very imprudent of Mr. Richard,” ob- 
served Grace. Her sympathies, it seemed, did not extend 
to his brother. Then presently, “ I hope Agnes is really 
better ; I have not seen her for so many days. Some- 
times I fear that she does not want to see me.” 

“ She would come if she could, dear Grace — of that you 
may be certain,” said Philippa earnestly. 

“ Have you seen her this morning ? ” 

“ I had only just left her room when I came into yours.” 
To have to give such replies to such questions had been 
long the duty of those who attended Grace’s sick-room. 
They had got used to the practice of duplicity ; though it 
was always dreadful to Philippa to have to speak of Agnes, 
there was just now another weight upon her mind even 
more oppressive. Her words were mechanical, and gave 
her little pain. 

“ There is the luncheon gong, dear Philippa ; I must 
insist on your going downstairs to the others ; you are 
moping yourself to death up here. Nurse will take good 
care of me — though indeed I now hardly want anyone.” 

Philippa was very willing to go, for anxiety to know 
whether the brothers had returned consumed her; but 
before doing so she laid strict injunctions on the hurse not 
to leave the invalid till she returned. 

“ I am not in the habit of leaving my patients, madam,” 
was the tart reply. Sick nurses are angels nowadays, but 

23 


33 ^ 


THE BURNT MILLION 


their wings are of a delicate texture, and they must not be 
“ sat upon.” 

“ My sister had a reason, nurse,” interposed Grace 
sweetly, “ and I am grateful to her, though you are quite 
right too. You would not leave me alone with any visitor 
I know.” 

Then the other two understood that the idea of the 
interview with Mr. Roscoe was weighing on her mind. 


CHAPTER LI. 

PHILIPPA SPEAKS OUT. 

The luncheon-table at Halswater Hall had of late been but 
sparely patronized, but the guests were now few indeed ; 
Mr. Allerton and Walter were the only ones that Philippa 
found there. Places, indeed, were laid for the two bro- 
thers, but they had not yet come in, though none but 
herself entertained any serious apprehensions on their 
account. 

“ Why people in the country go out in weather that 
they would not dream of exposing themselves to in town,” 
remarked the lawyer, helping himself to pigeon pie, “ is 
always a riddle to me without an answer. It can’t be for 
appetite, for though I have been writing all the morning 1 
am quite as hungry as if I had been wet through or frozen. 
Why do they do it ? ” 

“ There is no harm in it if one is strong and well,” 
observed Walter ; “ but for Mr. Richard to have gone out 
on such a day as this is certainly very imprudent. Don’t 
you think so, Miss Philippa? ” 

“ No doubt it is ; and I am sorry to say it is I who was 
the cause of it,” was the unexpected reply. 

Remorse, or perhaps the “ late beginnings ” of a resolve 
to be frank and open in the future in all things permissible 
had moved her to the confession, yet no sooner was it 
made than she repented of it. She perceived too late that 
her words required an explanation ; her companions, 
indeed, were obviously waiting for it. 

“ I had seen Mr. Roscoe in the garden, and I begged 
his brother to fetch him in,” she added, after a pause. 


THE BURNT MILLION, 


339 


“ In the garden, in a snowstorm ! ” ejaculated the lawyer. 
“ You should have sent him out a straight waistcoat with 
‘ Miss Philippa’s compliments, and the padded room was 
being prepared for him.’ What on earth can they be 
doing, do you suppose ? Gardening ? ” 

There was a look on Philippa’s face that checked Wal- 
ter’s answering smile. 

“ If they do not return in five minutes,” he said gravely, 
“ I will go out and seek for them.” 

“ Madman No. 3,” observed the lawyer. 

There really seemed no possibility of their having come 
to harm, though it must be admitted that if there had been 
the speaker would have borne it with equanimity. He 
detested Edward, and knew nothing of Richard except that 
he was Edward’s brother. 

“ There is the front door bell !” cried Philippa, starting 
to her feet. “ They have come back.” And with that she 
hurried from the room. 

“ Everybody is mad to-day ! ” exclaimed the lawyer. 
“ If Roscoe has come back, why should Miss Philippa 
suppose he would ring the bell ? It is not his way in his 
own house.” 

“ I am really afraid there is something wrong,” said 
Walter ; “ I know what a snowstorm is in this region.” 

“ And yet you are going out in it? ” 

“ I have promised,” was the other’s quiet reply, as he 
rose from the table. 

“Very good,” answered the lawyer grudgingly ; “only 
remember there is some one interested in your welfare, 
which, as far as I know, is not the case with the other two 
gentlemen.” 

The visitor turned out to be the doctor, who had come 
long before his time because of the snowstorm. 

“ It was a case of now or never,” he said to Philippa, 
who received, though it could hardly be said welcomed, 
him. Her anxiety about the brothers was getting over- 
whelming. What could have happened ? 

“Every hour makes traveling more difficult. It is 
weather in which one would not turn out a curlew ; nobody 
could stand it but a country doctor. Well,” as Philippa 
led the way upstairs, “ how is your sister? ” 

“ Progressing, I think, though she seemed a little de- 
pressed this morning.” 


340 


THE BURNT MILLION 


a Depressed ! That should not have been. She had her 
tonic, I suppose, as I directed ? ” 

“ No, she did not.” 

In spite ofher new-born resolutions Philippa would have 
evaded the question had it been possible ; but to have 
been caught out in a falsehood about the matter — which 
was almost certain to happen — would have been dangerous 
indeed. 

“ She did not ? And why not ? ” 

The doctor had stopped short in his march along the 
corridor, and put the question with some energy. He was 
a great stickler for medical authority, and especially his 
own authority. 

“ I could not find the bottle,” she murmured. 

“Not find the bottle? This must be inquired into at 
once, Miss Philippa. It contained, as I told you, strych- 
nine, a deadly poison, and should be always kept under 
lock and key.” 

They were standing opposite the door of Agnes’ room, 
and the doctor entered it at once. The medicine-chest, 
a highly ornamented affair, stood on a bracket, with the 
key in it. 

“ You surely never left it like that ? ” 

“ I am not sure,” she answered faintly. (t The key ought 
to have been in my own drawer ; but not finding it there 
when the hour came for giving Grace her tonic, I thought 
it might be where you now see it. It was there, but the 
bottle was gone.” 

“ Yes, madam,” said the doctor, looking at her with 
great severity ; “ and I perceive that you know who has 
taken it. It is I who will be held responsible in this matter, 
and I must insist upon knowing it too.” 

“ Mr. Roscoe took it.” 

“ Mr. Roscoe ! ” The doctor’s face turned suddenly 
pale ; perhaps he had had already his suspicions of Mr. 
Roscoe, or they had been aroused by Mr. Allerton’s views 
of that gentleman. 

“ This is a very serious affair, Miss Philippa. I do not 
leave the house until that bottle is placed in my possession. 
Where is Mr. Roscoe ? ” 

“ Would to Heaven I knew j ” she answered earnestly. 
i( He has gone out, taking the bottle with him. He has 
been away for hours in this pitiless snow.” 


THE BURNT MILLION 


34 * 


“ Better out than in,” was the doctor’s reflection. The 
knowledge that the man was absent soothed certain im- 
mediate apprehensions that had seized his mind ; the sight 
of Philippa’s terror-stricken face filled him with pity for 
her. 

“You think he meant mischief — I mean, of course, to 
himself — do you ? But why should he have gone out of 
doors ? ” 

“ I do not think he knew what he was doing, doctor. 
If anything has happened to him, which Heaven forbid, 
he was not responsible for his actions. He has had much 
to trouble him of late.” 

“ Did he go out before lunch ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! Long before.” 

The question was not asked for the reason that Philippa 
supposed. The fact has been well ascertained that people 
do not commit suicide upon empty stomachs. 

“ Well, well, we must wait and see ; your sister, of 
course, must know nothing of this. Her tonic, if she asks 
about it, has been intermitted.” 

Grace did not ask about it. She was not one of those 
invalids who are solicitous about their medicine. 

“ Am I very bad to-day ? ” she inquired, smiling, noticing 
the doctor’s serious looks. 

“ No, miss, you are better, but you must have change 
of air. The sooner you can get away from this place the 
better.” 

“ And poor Agnes, too. She must need it as much as 
I, by all accounts.” 

The doctor nodded assent. “ When she hears the truth,” 
he was saying to himself, “ it is probable she will have a 
relapse.” 

True to his promise, he remained at the Hall, and not 
unwillingly, perhaps, considering the state of the weather, 
accepted the offer of a bed for the night. 

After some hours Walter returned, looking like a snow- 
man. He had seen nothing of the brothers ; they were 
not in the grounds, nor had anyone the least idea where 
they could be. Some one had seen them walking together, 
he said, towards the head of the lake, and thither Walter 
had gone, but there was no trace of them in that direction. 
If they had been seen at all, they must have been going 
the opposite way, towards the post-town. The dinner- 


342 


THE BURNT MILLION 


party that day included the doctor, the lawyer and Walter 
only, Philippa having declined to appear. The meal was 
a very silent one till the servants had withdrawn, when 
the conversation, though gloomy, did not flag. The three 
men, being of one mind in the main, talked openly with 
one another. 

“ The absence of these gentlemen is getting very serious,” 
said the doctor. “ Is there any possible explanation of 
it?" The story of the strychnine, which after all could 
only affect one of them, he kept to himself. 

“ I have none," said Walter. “ I can only say that if 
they have not been housed somewhere long ere this I fear 
it will go hard with them.” 

“ I will say more than that : in that case they are dead 
men,” said the doctor. “You do not take so serious a view 
of it, Mr. Allerton? ” For, indeed, there was a half-smile 
on the lawyer’s face. “ You do not know what Cumber- 
land is in a snow storm ! ” 

“ I don’t know the scene of this drama so well as you 
do, doctor,” answered the other drily ; “ but, perhaps, 
I know one of the characters better. He may have his 
own reasons for disappearing ; but he will have taken care 
(of that I am certain) of his precious skin.” 

“ But why should he want to disappear in such an un- 
accountable fashion?” 

“ It is one way of settling with one’s creditors, and, 
unless rumor does him wrong, he has a good many. Be- 
tween ourselves, he has been very hard hit indeed ; and as 
to the fashion, nothing could be better chosen. It makes 
a clean sweep of the slate. It would never have done if 
he meant going to go away in a carriage and pair. His 
position here is not what it was ; perhaps he felt that the 
game was up. And if he is gone, I shall be very much 
surprised if he has gone empty-handed. What you are 
saying to yourself I know, doctor, is, this is a lawyer’s 
view of his fellow-creatures ; but I know the man I am 
talking about.” 

“ But my dear Mr. Allerton,” said Walter, “ we have 
to account for the absence of two men, and not one.” 

“ They are two men who are brothers, however ; to leave 
Richard behind him would have been to leave a witness 
against him who could never stand cross-examination It 
is my opinion they have laid their plans beforehand, and 
that it is a family affair.” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


343 


“ There, I would stake my life upon it, Mr. Allerton, 
you are wrong ! ” exclaimed Walter earnestly. “ Edward 
Roscoe may be all you think him to be, but Richard is an 
honest fellow. He would never be mixed up in anything 
disgraceful. Moreover, he has not the least sympathy with 
his brother, and hates his wicked ways.” 

“Well, well, we shall see,” said the lawyer, cracking his 
walnuts. “ There is no one like your scoundrel for putting 
a fancy value upon his existence, and I have the greatest 
confidence in Mr. Roscoe’s taking care of himself.” 

“ I agree with you so far,” said the doctor ; and indeed 
he was quite of opinion that Mr. Roscoe had not taken 
Miss Grace’s tonic for his own use ; “ but I have grave 
fears for the safety of both these gentlemen, nevertheless.” 

As time went on and nothing was heard of the missing 
men, that apprehension became general. The household 
was plunged in the same state of grim uncertainty that it 
had been on the occasion of the disappearance of Miss 
Agnes, but it lasted much longer. There was no key to it, 
as there had been in the former case. 

It was noticed with surprise that Miss Philippa was even 
more affected by it than she had been at the loss of her 
sister, but this was in reality because she was seen to be 
affected. On the other occasion she had withdrawn her- 
self from the rest, whereas she was now always about the 
house, looking through every window on the snow that 
still covered the cold earth, and always on the watch for 
she knew not what. She suffered from insomnia, and 
began to give the doctor more anxiety than his other patient, 
who, indeed, was making rapid progress towards recovery. 
She had a better tonic than Mr. Roscoe was supposed to 
have deprived her of in the visits of her lover, and she 
took them twice a day. Mr. Allerton never wavered in 
his opinion that the brothers had gone away for reasons of 
their own ; and when their return seemed out of the 
question he ventured to express his views to Philippa 
herself. 

“ It grieves me,” he said, “ to see you so distressed about 
your missing friends. Dr. Gardner tells me you are fretting 
about them day and night. I am convinced in my own 
mind that an explanation is to be found for it.” 

“ What explanation ? ” she inquired eagerly. 

“ Well, it is not a pleasant thing to say of an absent 
man, but I happen to know that Mr. Roscoe has for a 


344 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


long time been in difficulties ; he is unable to meet his 
engagements, which are very heavy, and has therefore 
probably run away from them. That is the plain truth.” 

He looked for an outburst of indignation, but she shook 
her head, and answered gently : “ No, it is not that ; I 

know all about his difficulties.” 

Mr. Allerton stared. “ The deuce you do ! ” was what 
he was saying to himself. 

“ You are a wise man. Think, think, of some other 
solution,” she went on in despairing tones. “ Have you 
no hint, no clue? This suspense is more than I can 
bear.” 

The lawyer looked sharply up at her ; he had never had 
so high an opinion of Mr. Roscoe’s talents as at that mo- 
ment, nor thought so badly of him. 

“We have no clue because we have no data,” he an- 
swered. “ If his brother had been left behind we could 
have examined Mr. Roscoe’s papers, but as it is we have 
no authority to meddle with them.” 

“Then I give you that authority, for I am his wife ! ” 

“ Good heavens, madam ! and how long has that 
been ? ” 

“ We were married before my father’s death.” 


CHAPTER LII. 

THE BURNT MILLION. 

If the revelation made by Philippa gave the lawyer no 
immediate clue to the mystery in hand, it made clear 
another matter which had always puzzled him. Hitherto 
he could never understand why Mr. Roscoe had not in- 
cited the sisters to dispute their father’s will. The reason 
was now plain. Whatever view a judge might have taken 
against restraint of marriage and in favor of religious 
liberty, he would certainly have stretched no point for a 
man who, living under the same roof with her, had clan- 
destinely married his employer’s daughter. That Mr. 
Roscoe had enjoyed — or, at all events, spent — an income 
to which neither he nor his wife had had any right would, 
under other circumstances, have been a serious consider- 


THE BURNT MILLION 


345 


ation, but just now there were things more pressing. Poor 
Josh’s million would, after Grace’s marriage, now belong 
to the representatives of his far-away cousins, or, failing 
them, to the national exchequer. It is not possible to 
describe how the honest old lawyer resented this fact. He 
almost regretted that he had given his consent to the 
union of those two young people, for whom he nevertheless 
felt more affection than for any other of his fellow-creatures. 
It was really throwing money away — and such a heap of 
money ! 

Nevertheless, he not only set to work upon this distaste- 
ful matter, but took Walter into his confidence. He was 
a little disappointed at the lack of interest which the young 
fellow showed in Philippa’s revelation. “You seem 
hardly to understand, my young friend, that but for this 
mad marriage of hers — about which I fear there is little 
doubt ; it was done at the register-office in Kensington, 
within half a mile of Cedar Lodge — she would have been 
the richest woman in England ; nay, sir — for I must needs 
be frank with you — I have pointed out to Grace that if she 
chooses to give you up she may be herself that richest 
woman.” 

“ So she told me,” observed Walter drily. 

“ Oh, she did, did she ? Then I cal] it a distinct breach 
of confidence as between ward and guardian.” 

“ But she also said that you were afraid matters had gone 
too far between us to admit of her giving me up,” continued 
Walter, smiling. 

“ I said I thought you would have ground for an action 
for breach of promise,” growled the lawyer, “ and that per- 
haps she would not like to appear in the witness-box ; but 
I wish you to know what she is giving up for you.” 

“ Indeed, Mr. Allerton,” said Walter gravely, “ I put 
that matter before her as forcibly as my heart would let 
me ; though, in giving me herself, she had already given 
what is worth more than all the wealth in the world. The 
fact is that she detests the very name of money. Through 
it, as I gather, she believes her father became the man he 
was, and indeed, from all I hear, he worshipped it ; through 
it this unhappy man Roscoe has been tempted to do all 
sorts of dirty tricks ; through it, and the jealousies and 
disappointments arising from it, her home, which might 
otherwise have been such a happy one, has been made a 


34 ^ 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


hell ; through it, and the plots and plans to secure it, she 
was almost separated from the man she loves for ever. It 
is no wonder that Grace hates money.” 

The lawyer listened in silence ; it was not his way to 
hear money run down (as it often is by those who are very 
willing to experience its temptations) without pointing out 
that it may be a blessing instead of a curse, but he had 
nothing to say for poor Josh’s million. In his heart of 
hearts he suspected that much worse had come of it than 
even Grace gave it credit for ; and besides, it was now 
passing out of the hands of his clients into those of a 
stranger. 

“ I give you my word, Mr. Allerton,” continued Walter, 
“ that I had a hard matter to persuade her that even the 
10,000/. her father left her ought not to be given up, be- 
cause it might originally have been wrung from the widow 
and the orphan.” 

“ What infernal nonsense ! ” ejaculated the lawyer ; “ if 
Josh had not got it, it would have been lost at cards or on 
the racecourse. Upon my life, even the best of women — 
but pray go on.” 

“ I was only going to say that what seems to me the worst 
thing about Roscoe was his setting poor Grace against her 
father’s memory ; to tell her the truth was bad enough, 
but it seems he invented some hateful lie about his having 
defrauded my father, which, if, as I understand, you had 
not set right, would have kept us apart for ever.” 

“ Yes ; that falsehood of Roscoe’s puzzles me still ; he 
had generally something to go upon, but that must have 
been pure invention. Well, I want you to be with me 
while I examine his papers, which may be very queer read- 
ing. He was a methodical fellow — a good man of business 
in his way — and if he has not burnt them, we may find 
some clue to bis disappearance. It’s a nasty thing to do, 
but we shall have to break open his desk.” 

“That is rather a strong measure, is it not ? ” 

“ No doubt it is ; but desperate diseases require despe- 
rate remedies. I have his wife’s authority to do it.” 

Mr. Roscoe’s sitting-room was the very abode of neat- 
ness. Everything that a man of business could want was 
there, and in its place. Here the weekly bills of the 
household were audited and settled, and the tenants came 
to pay their rents. Huge MS. books with clasps and keys, 


THE BURNT MILLION 


347 


with letters painted on them, were on the shelves ; their 
proprietor was a man who could have given an account of 
his stewardship — though it was never demanded of him — 
down to the last penny. The desk, which Mr. Allerton 
recognized as having originally belonged to the late Mr. 
Tremenhere, was an immense structure, as big as a ward- 
robe. It had held secrets in Josh’s time, which the lawyer 
would have given much to have got hold of ; and it doubt- 
less held secrets now. The middle part of it — the desk 
proper — was that to which he first gave his attention. It 
was locked, of course, and with no ordinary key ; and it 
took some minutes with hammer and chisel to force it open. 
It was full of papers, all docketed and arranged with 
admirable neatness. 

“ I was wrong,” exclaimed Mr. Allerton, as he cast his 
eyes over them. “ The man is dead. He would never 
knowingly have left these proofs behind him.” There were 
statements of accounts with the two Miss Tremenheres — ■ 
some of them were memoranda, but all expressed in the 
most concise and careful manner — which almost made his 
hair stand on end : huge sums of money, varying from 
500/. to 5,000/., which had been received from them at 
different times, and all, no doubt, lost in speculation. On 
one of them borrowed from Agnes not many weeks before 
was written in pencil the words, “ Very difficult ” ; there 
was no such note to Philippa’s loans, which were much 
more numerous and larger. “ What an insatiable scoun- 
drel ! ” muttered the lawyer ; “ and I have no doubt that he 
spent every shilling on himself.” 

“ There is a letter to Richard with an American post- 
mark,” observed Walter, who was looking over the other’s 
shoulder; “ I wonder how that came into Mr. Roscoe’s 
desk.” 

“ I am afraid we have no business with it,” said the 
lawyer doubtfully. 

“ I am quite sure Mr. Roscoe had none,” replied Walter. 
“ Richard has had no letter, as he told me himself, poor 
fellow, bitterly enough, since he came to England ; and his 
brother keeps the bag.” 

“Judas!” muttered Mr. Allerton, and tore open the 
document. “Great heavens ! this is news indeed/ ” 

“ What have you found ? ” 


34$ 


THE BURNT MILLION 


For a moment the lawyer was unable to answer him, 
His ordinary impassive face was full of excitement ; his 
hands trembled as he read. 

“ This concerns you, my lad ; do you know the hand- 
writing ? ” 

“ Indeed I do,” cried Walter, greatly moved ; “ it is my 
poor father’s.” 

It was the document addressed to Walter which Richard 
had left for safety in America, and had been forwarded to 
him by his correspondent ; it was duly witnessed, and set 
forth in a simple style that for certain reasons the writer 
had changed his name of Vernon for Sinclair, and how he 
had been cheated of his property by his cousin, Joseph 
Tremenhere. “ I have no wish that you should resume 
your name, dear boy,” it went on to say, “ and far less 
nourish animosity against him who wronged me, but I have 
thought it right that you should know who you really are 
in case I may not live to tell you, and to acquaint you with 
my unfortunate history. The man to whom I have entrusted 
this paper is my dearest friend and may be thoroughly 
relied on.” 

The frown that had at first settled on Walter’s face was 
now succeeded by a look of the profoundest dejection. 

“ Then Roscoe spoke the truth to Grace after all,” he 
sighed. 

“ Only just as much of it as suited his purpose. I know 
something you do not know. Walter, I have great news 
for you. Mr. Tremenhere, no doubt repentant of the 
wrong he had done your father, made him, under certain 
conditions, the heir of his whole fortune. These condi- 
tions, by the death of one daughter and the marriage of 
another, have been fulfilled, except as far as Grace is con- 
cerned, and now in marrying you she will lose nothing, for 
the money which she thereby forfeits will revert to your- 
self. It was the knowledge of this fact thus conveyed that 
no doubt caused Roscoe, who was previously in favor of 
your marriage, to oppose himself to it ; why he kept such 
a dangerous secret in his possession it is impossible to tell, 
but we may be sure he never intended to disclose it, save 
for reason good. However, it has now fallen into the 
proper hands. My dear Walter, I congratulate you sin- 
cerely ; you are as rich as Croesus,” 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


349 


“You mean to say that, thanks to this document, I can 
become so ? ” 

“ Certainly ; it will only be necessary to prove its cor- 
rectness.” 

“ And without it ? ” 

“ Well of course nothing could be proved Madman ! 

what have you done? ” 

Walter had suddenly thrown the paper into the fire and 
set his heel upon it. 

“ You have burnt a million of money.” 

“ I have burnt the only evidence of Mr. Tremenhere’s 
fraud,” 'answered Walter coolly. “ Do you suppose that 
the ignorance of that miserable fact will not be a greater 
comfort to her than the reflection that she had all the 
money in the world ? Has her experience of what money 
can do been likely to induce her to value it ? ” 

The lawyer stared at him with astonishment and horror ; 
he hardly knew what he said ; his moral nature — or that 
second one with which his profession had supplied him — 
had suffered a serious shock. 

“ It was too great a sacrifice,” he muttered, as if in pro- 
test, “ to be made for any man.” 

“At all events,” returned Walter, smiling, “it was not 
an unselfish one, since, if Grace knew that her father had 
robbed mine, I verily believe she would have shrunk from 
me. She will now never know it. The memory of her 
father, if it cannot be what it once was to her, will at least 
be free from disgrace, and she will not, through conscien- 
tious (however foolish) scruples, be ashamed to take her 
husband.” 

“ There is something in that,” admitted the lawyer rue- 
fully. “ Walter Sinclair — for Sinclair is what you must 
still be called — you are a fine fellow, and I am proud to 
call myself your friend. It was a fond and foolish act, but 
it was a noble one ; and, since the mischief is done, per- 
haps you will be interested to learn that you are a public 
benefactor : failing your father’s heirs, Mr. Tremenhere’s 
money was to go to the Commissioners for the reduction 
of the National Debt, and now they will have it without 
even saying ‘ thank you.’ But at all events we can make 
them wait. Every week your marriage is postponed Grace 
will be putting by a thousand pounds or so ; of course your 
engagement will now be a very long one.” 


35 ° 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


“ It will seem so, no doubt,” said Walter, sighing. “ We 
are to be married in the spring.” 

“ A very appropriate time, if we are to believe the 
poets,” said Mr. Allerton cheerfully ; “ but of course you 
don’t mean next spring? ” 

“ My good sir, if I had my way, and dear Grace was 
herself again,” said Walter, “ we should be married to- 
morrow.” 


CHAPTER LIII. 

PEACE AT LAST. 

Notwithstanding Walter’s lover-like impatience, or, as 
Mr. Allerton termed it, his stark, staring madness, his 
marriage with Grace did not come off till a considerable 
sum had accumulated for the young people. Events of a 
very grave nature interposed between the cup and the lip. 
It had been foreseen, indeed, by Dr. Gardner that the in- 
telligence of the loss of her sister, which had sooner or 
later to be communicated to her, would have a retarding 
effect on Grace’s recovery, and this turned out to be the 
case ; but there were other circumstances that helped to 
depress and distress her, and had she not had Walter’s love 
to comfort her and the prospect of a happier future to 
look forward to, there is little doubt but that their cumu- 
lative effect would have proved fatal to a constitution 
already severely tried. 

No news had come to hand of either Mr. Roscoe or his 
brother ; the lake still held the remains of Agnes in its icy 
grasp ; and while it was imperative that Grace should be 
removed from a spot so full of melancholy association as 
Halswater, it was arranged that she should leave home 
with Philippa (who needed change of scene at least as 
much as herself) for the Isle of Wight, but this could not 
be done without awakening suspicions and anxieties that 
compelled some explanation. Where were those three 
members of the little household — the sister for whom she 
still entertained affection, however ill-deserved ; the friend 
of the family whose absence was felt, if not deplored, in 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


35 1 

all domestic arrangements ; and his brother for whom she 
had entertained so genuine a regard ? It was absolutely 
necessary to tell her why none of them were present to 
wish her good-bye, and the consequence was that she left 
home a mourner, and more of an invalid than ever. A house 
had been secured for the sisters at Ventnor with a large 
garden overlooking the sea, while Walter took up his 
quarters in a neighboring hotel. Notwithstanding what 
Mr. Allerton persisted in calling his “ gigantic sacrifice ” 
(as if it had been a sale of goods), the course of true love 
was by no means running smooth. Indeed, at one time 
Grace’s state of health became so serious that it seemed 
possible that the Burnt Million had been burnt for nothing 
— an apprehension which, if it did not move him to tears, 
brought the drops out on the good lawyer’s brow. 

The land agent at Halswater, whose place it had been 
Mr. Roscoe’s intention that his brother should fill, was 
instructed to have the lake dragged as soon as the disap- 
pearance of the ice permitted, and the first result of that 
operation at the foot of the terrace walk was startling in- 
deed. The grappling hooks brought to land — not one 
body, but two, and neither of them that which they sought. 
They were those of the two brothers, “ clasped,” as the 
newspaper reports expressed it, “ in one another’s arms.” 
It was supposed to be an affecting incident of fraternal 
love. Those who knew them well knew better. Mr. 
Allerton’s explanation of the matter, at all events — and I 
think it was a shrewd one — founded on his own suspicions 
and on what Philippa and Walter told him, was as follows. 

Driven to his wits’ end by the failure of his plans and 
the concealment of a terrible crime, Roscoe had desper- 
ately conceived another — the murder of Grace herself ; for 
that purpose, and not for that of self-slaughter, he had 
obtained the bottle of strychnine which was found in his 
breast pocket ; this conclusion was the very one that 
Richard arrived at on hearing Philippa’s story, and, furious 
at the danger that threatened Grace, he had sought his 
brother with the intention of taxing him with this intention 
and also of obtaining possession of the bottle. He had 
found him on the terrace walk, on the very spot where a 
similar catastrophe had occurred to Agnes, and a struggle 
had ensued in which both brothers had fallen over the cliff. 


352 


THE BURNT MILLION. 


The coroner’s jury, however, returned a verdict of “ acci- 
dental death ” in their case, as in that of Agnes, whose 
body was found a day or two afterwards, it having drifted 
for some distance down the lake. 

The newspapers were studiously kept from Philippa, 
but the news had to be told her, and in due time she broke 
it to Grace. It was no wonder that the poor girl’s conva- 
lescence was retarded ; but in the end youth and love 
brought her forth from the valley of death. 

Walter Sinclair was never suspected of having borne the 
name of Vernon, nor did that circumstance, since Grace 
was ignorant of it, affect the legality of their marriage. 
The transference of her father’s fortune to the Commis- 
sioners of the National Debt was not even a nine days’ 
wonder — for who heeds a drop in the ocean? — except with 
Mrs. Linden. That lady never ceased to have an 
imaginative interest in Josh’s million, and to express her 
astonishment that no heirs to Mr. Vernon of Cockermouth 
were ever discovered. If she had been informed on affi- 
davit that any human being had sacrificed such a sum, on 
the altar of Hymen or anywhere else, she would certainly 
have refused to believe it ; but he who had done the deed 
never repented of it for an instant. The young couple 
have quite as much money as is good for them, and Grace 
can think of him who had been wont to call her “ his little 
Fairy,” if not with the old trust and tenderness, at all 
events without the flush of shame. Mr. Allerton, who is 
a frequent guest of theirs, and has had many opportunities 
of contemplating their happiness, is compelled to own 
that in surrendering his place among the millionaires of 
England Walter has found ample compensation. 

Philippa — a changed woman, and greatly for the better 
— resides within a stone’s-throw of her married sister in 
the Isle of Wight, for Halswater Hall, with its sombre 
memories, has long passed into other hands. 

In a fair garden by the sea there is a little toddler who 
has as yet but a single playmate, one who never quarrels 
with her or envies her the possession of her many toys. 
He is almost as great a favorite with her as he is with her 
father and mother ; there is a tender association between 
them and him of which the child knows nothing. He 
passes his days on the sunny lawn and his nights ip a well- 


THE BURNT MILLION 


353 


lined basket at the foot of their bed, and, though he knows 
no more of the Burnt Million than the rest of the world, 
enjoys his master’s fullest confidence and affection. On 
what slight causes hinge our poor human affairs ! “ But 

for you, Rip,” says Walter gratefully, as he caresses the 
little creature, “ I should, perhaps, never have won your 
mistress.” 


THE END. 














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